Chapter 13 – Fairy: A Tribute

The very hardest thing about living and working with animals is the emotional wrench you feel when you lose one. When a new resident arrives at Pen Y Bryn they become part of the wider family. It really doesn’t matter what they are – another chicken, guinea pig, mouse, canary, turkey, dog or pig, they are now part of us. Whenever the vulnerability of any of our residents comes to the fore through injury or sickness the hold they subsequently have on our hearts is quire intense. On many occasions Kelly has cradled desperately ill chickens in her lap or held baby rabbits to her breast in the full knowledge that their moments were limited but in the desire that they should at least feel the warmth of her love before their passing. When the end does come the tears flow and for some time the sanctuary grieves. We grieve the passing of all our residents, the size of their body or the time they have spent with us really doesn’t matter, our family becomes a little smaller and we mourn. Then, we move on and care for the living.

Fairy was never a part of the sanctuary. Fairy was my cat and she had been since July 2006 when I collected her as a kitten from a foster parent in Tewkesbury. Her name then was Mandy but my son Ethan would name her Fairy. She had been found in a cardboard box in the centre of Birmingham, perhaps abandoned, perhaps the offspring of a feral or semi-feral urban cat. From the outset she was full of spirit as indeed most kittens are, but what I remember most was when we first met her at the foster parent’s home she was in the process of knocking ten bales out of the West Highland Terrier that was twice her size, many years older and the permanent resident at the house. This tiny feline was quite simply not scared of anything and won our hearts immediately, she duly came home with us.

At that time I lived alone in a garden flat in Cheltenham, my son would visit on Wednesdays and alternate weekends. It wasn’t particularly the best days of my life but having Fairy in it brought joy and another meaning to the many empty hours. The flat very quickly became her own and she grew into it. But she was also always a very cautious and not particularly friendly cat. Her feral genes were always lying beneath her surface and there weren’t many people that she would take a liking to. As she grew, if I had visitors and they went to pat her I would immediately warn them off to protect them from her claws or sharp teeth. She did however like music and at that time I was teaching piano a lot from the flat. I had one particular pupil, Meg, who Fairy seemed to develop an affinity with. Whenever Meg would turn up for a lesson Fairy would appear from one of her sleeping quarters, she would jump up onto the top of the piano and lie there purring, inviting attention from Meg. It soon became evident to me that Meg’s interest in learning the piano was waning, but her desire to come for lessons was increasing as she could spend some time with my young black and white cat.

Fairy never really became sociable though, she did put up with people and she would even show affection to some, on her terms, when she was in the mood. She would even on occasion abide the presence of other animals in her home, but always with an underlying grumble.

Unfortunately for Fairy she had to put up with the whimsies and erratic nature of an artistic brain. A marriage brought not just one new inhabitant to the flat but two with the inclusion of another cat. The breakdown of that relationship meant the moving from our home to a temporary residence at first my parents’, then a sojourn at a generous friend’s in Cheltenham who was spending time in Australia and then a more permanent rental just outside Tewkesbury where we had a three bedroom house and garden to ourselves.

Fairy took the turmoil in my life in her stride. Constantly complaining and showing her annoyance at her surroundings becoming unfamiliar yet again, let alone the people in our lives, she would nevertheless settle and accept it was down to my failings and ultimately curl herself up on my lap in forgiveness.

When Kelly came into my life she brought along her miniature Yorkshire Terrier, Bailey. Bailey was a similar size to Fairy and her equal when it came to character. Between them they had to find a way of living together in an accepted harmony. We soon learnt that the relationship the two had forged was schizophrenic in nature. Should Kelly and I be home together, or even individually, Bailey and Fairy would be constantly bickering and getting on each other’s nerves, each desperate for the attention of at least one of the humans in the house. However, we soon discovered that should we leave them alone then they would settle happily in each other’s company. Many was the time that we would quietly return home to find them both sleeping soundly, against each other at the top of the stairs awaiting us.

When Kelly and I decided to give up the tenancy and find a home of our own and we ended up at Pen Y Bryn, Fairy was again forced to leave the security of the boundaries she had made in Tewkesbury. Always complaining, always on the cusp of violence to anyone that she didn’t take an instant liking to (which was pretty much everyone) she moved to Ross-on-Wye begrudgingly. With a constant influx of workmen and other strangers she slunk into the recesses of the lounge hiding from all except Kelly and I. Eventually however the turmoil abated and she relaxed, she began exploring the bungalow and the front garden. Often she would stay outside all night, sheltering under the long leylandii hedge where mice and other intrigues fascinated her. Fairy began once again to find her home and territorial lines. Her safety lay within the lounge behind the sofa where her bed would always welcome her, or underneath the hedge where nothing could get to her and only I could coax her out with the repeated calling of her name.

Then more upset arrived for her with first yappy, bouncy little Dotty, the Pomeranian with almost as much attitude as Fairy. Then the occasional foster pups who stayed for a week or two whilst their futures could be ascertained who brought noise and smells that Fairy abhorred. Then Socks and Arthur the barn cats who would patrol the outer layers of the sanctuary but upon pain of a fearful reprisal from Fairy would tread carefully around the actual house. And finally the arrival of Tilly, our even tempered Yorkie who would pay little attention to the feline demon behind the sofa, but would occasionally offer a passing sniff if their paths crossed.

In all this time Fairy was the loner in the house. She offered little if any acceptance to any fellow house guests, only Kelly and myself were considered worthy of any attention or affection and even then only ever when she was in the mood and on her terms. She would spend her days and sometimes nights wandering the small garden, looking out of the conservatory windows, snuggled up in her bed, or for a little while sniffing and licking my hair if I was on the sofa and she had jumped onto the back of it.

As she aged she became more calm, most likely because of the reduction in her hearing which meant that fewer things surprised and alarmed her. She would accept affection more and very often call out loudly if she had been alone for too long. She wasn’t ever a cat that would overtly show love but we knew who she trusted.

Fairy passed away in my arms aged nineteen and a half.

One day her stomach had blown up into a solid ball and she was clearly in pain and discomfort. The vet drained over a litre of fluids from her and she came home with medications and hopes that she would get better. She fought and held on with the spirit that had been with her throughout her life, the spirit of survival that had seen her escape from the box in Birmingham and live a long and independent life, a life on her terms, no-one else’s. Her last night I slept on the sofa in the lounge with her, in the early hours she got off from her own bed for the first time in a couple of days and attempted to leap onto the sofa to be by my feet. Her back legs made her leap too weak but her forelegs pulled her up and she sunk in exhaustion by my side. I thought that maybe this was the sign of a rejuvenation, the morning brought me the truth. Exhausted and crying in pain I knew that I had to take her to the vet for the inevitable. I could barely make my request heard on the telephone as my throat closed up and tears welled in my eyes, but an appointment was made. I had her for just a few hours more. I promised her that her pain would soon pass.

She passed before I could get her to the vet, a baby in my arms, her eyes never leaving my face, it was the kindest thing she could ever have done for me.

I didn’t think that losing Fairy would hit me particularly hard. She was an old cat, it was to be expected, I was prepared.

But I wasn’t prepared at all.

When my father passed in 2019 having been ill for a couple of years my grief was for a failed relationship, for missed opportunities, for a failure to impress and prove my worth. His passing took a weight from my shoulders that had been with me all my adult life, the weight of disappointment.

The grief I felt of losing this small, feisty, bad-tempered cat was at times over-whelming. I pity the neighbours and passers-by who may have heard my wails and uncontrolled sobs as I tried to find some sort of solace walking around the sanctuary. I apologise unreservedly to the vet receptionist who took my call in which I tried to explain that I wasn’t bringing Fairy to them for the last time. A 56 year old man shouldn’t behave or react this way. A 56 year old man should have more control of their emotions, should be more pragmatic, more sang-froid, stronger. Fairy’s passing brought a weight of loss onto my shoulders that darkened my world. I am still surprised by the effect that it has had on me.

Very often the animals in your life are or have become your life. For over a third of mine I shared it with a street cat that saw me through the very darkest of my days and would share with me the best of my days. Her passing is a closing of a chapter, but a chapter that will be forever open in my heart.

I may have given Fairy a home, she gave me so very much more.