Screen Shot 2017-10-04 at 15.16.39This is Bubbie: well, “Bubbie aka Church, Herman Miller, Rameses, Winston and 500 other names”. This was the answer I got when I asked the cat’s name. What an answer – it would take 4 or 5 blog posts to unpack those names, and a fair bit of googling. Herman Miller alone has me trying to knit together literary greats, whales and dying salesmen – but I’m not quite sure how one cat could.

Still, if any cat could, Bubbie could. He was rather a character. A Selkirk Rex, with no whiskers – which I now learn, is not uncommon in these regal pusses, whose curly whiskers sometimes just curl too far and break off (an Edwardian children’s author, might be able to extract a moral from this tendency – but perhaps whiskers are allowed to curl with impunity in these more modern times). Anyhow, according to his rather wonderful owner, who has a whole trunkful of stories about him, Bubbie was friendly, fearless and persistent, he could fetch like a dog, scale Christmas trees, and pick out a decent husband for her. My dog fetches like a dog too, but as to picking out a husband, if it were left up to Jeffy, I would be running off with every delivery man, boy or lady who comes to the door. I couldn’t afford the hire on the marquees. So yes, it does sound like that Bubbie was quite something.

Oh, and his colouring: like smoke billowing up from a bonfire of fallen leaves, or Autumn’s celebrated mists  – it curls and wreathes round him. It seems alive in its own right – perhaps that’s just down to the curl of any Selkirk Rex, but I like to think there’s something of Bubbie’s spirit caught in this.

Here’s his beginning:

IMG_2406And here he is – held up to the light, for a rather gloriously spooky effect, rather fitting for Hallowe’en.IMG_2408

And rather fitting for Bubbie too, for Bubbie died recently. But Bubblie, lovely Bubbie, seems still to be keeping an eye on things down here. Odd things happen: a container of his favourite treats, falls off the shelf for no reason, and there are half-seen movements out of the corner of your eye. At this point, his owner reassured me that there was nothing spooky about this, and I pass that on to you, just in case you are, like me, a recovering spookaholic (I blame over-exposure to Scooby Doo as a child, and having a spookaholic older brother). So, not scary, just lovely.

We’ll let the pictures tell their story:IMG_2416

There are a lot of stitches in those eyes. It felt like every time I stared deeply into Bubbie’s eyes, I would find another shade of yellow in there. I began to sense that he was mesmerising me, as he used to mesmerise Trig, a Trigger fish of his acquaintance. I pulled myself away, at last, and pronounced him done. It was about then I started looking for whiskers where no whiskers were (try saying that in a hurry, on a dark night).

And when I found there really were none, I was all done. Here he is:


And here are those eyes again:


…with a stitch for every adventure, for every story stored up in his owner’s memory.


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