In my previous post I wrote about how much I adore the members of the feline race. When we moved into our first house, which 'boasted' a garden, the very next month we adopted a cat from the local branch of Cats' Protection, she was already called Tilly. Tilly, a three-year-old (or so they thought, vets can only really make a guesstimate based on an animal's teeth) tortoiseshell female had been left behind with her brother Milo in a house after the owners moved out (nice people, huh?) She didn't have a great relationship with her brother/litter mate, so they were due to be rehomed separately and as we only wanted one moggy, she was ideal as we didn't want a kitten rampaging through our new things.
Tilly was our pet for a number of years, she stayed home when we both worked in London and kept the house and garden pest free. That's pretty much all you want from a cat really. She also really liked my dad, pets usually do - he's our suburb's version of
The Cat Whisperer. Or maybe he just smells meaty? Who knows.
Here's a picture of Tilly, aged sixteen taken in December 2016. I've already written about her sad demise in an earlier blog post:
https://faspie.blogspot.com/2018/07/post-140-my-late-cat-tilly.html
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