This page is a tribute to my friend Edward. I am writing it for him, for reasons that will be immediately obvious (hello, I'm Caroline). We may be sentimental but we are not going in for that anthropomorphic malarkey. Edward was born on Feb 9th 1992 under my laundry. His mother Valentina (a Valentine's day present) - "Kitten" to us at home - hadn't eaten all day and when I spotted her under the drying horse (that's what they're called right?) I put my hand into the darkness to check she was OK. And Whoa! Holy Hairballs! What the beejeezuz was that?! It was Edward, named after the characterful landlord who had dropped dead in our bathroom a week before. Her only kitten was the result of a one night stand, an isolated occurrence. I had carried her to the communal garden from our first floor apartment which looked onto St Matthew's Church in Brixton. Within seconds she was jumped (Ladies, we've all been there) by Tom Cat Bad Bwoy and Bob's your Marley, look what we gone got!
We moved a few times, we three, before settling back in Brixton with a garden of our own. One day pretty Kitten went padding off and we didn't see her again. There's a lot of foxes in our 'hood. Who knows.
The 2 Bad Mice crew, Sean, Rhodesy and Si, made leaflets asking her to come home. Goldie offered to take me to Harrods to buy a pedigree replacement. But, while we appreciated the love, Ed and I decided to stick it alone. He nearly came with me on the Sneaker Pimp tour bus round Europe, with Placebo, but at the last minute decided he'd rather spend six weeks asleep on the bed.
And now that is about the time we have left, six weeks, or so, so we're told. A sniffle turned out to be a tumour. Helen, our vet, said it was pretty sure what it was, best not muck him about with a biopsy, just make him happy. If it was confirmed, the treatment would be radiotherapy trips to Cambridge and that ain't going to happen, though I love him very much. If you have been lucky enough to meet him, lucky you. If he ever scratched or spat, I reckon he's sorry for it now. Time was you needed full body armour (and a fork lift truck) to lift him, but now he's mellowed into an old bag puss and I can just shove his fat ass into Valerie's cat carrier (thanks Val). If you didn't ever meet him, never mind, we'll put some Fat Black Green Eyed Nine Lives Luck by for you anyway. If you'd like to leave him a message, or a poem or a piece of music, I will read them to him, for I think he will appreciate any kind effort in the spirit of good cheer. As I wrote to California KT, who so sweetly put up this site for him, I suspect he's gonna go on like The Pope now, having daily, then hourly, bulletins veering from critical crisis to sitting up and asking for fillet steak. So while we don't know how long we've got, we shall try to enjoy it - if you care to contribute... we thank you.Love,
Lady C
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