Missing My Bin Buddy

Obviously Trixie died the other day, I mentioned that. And it was ridiculously sad and upsetting and, in all honesty, I still tend to look out of the window thinking I’ll see her pottering past or jumping up onto the windowsill to stare at me until I give her some food.

It’s bloomin’ ridiculous. She can’t do any of that because she’s been lovingly buried in a garden a couple of houses away.

But it’s still genuinely gutting.

It really hit home today when I went out to the bins earlier on.

This time last week, Trixie would come running through the gardens and hang out as I sorted out glass bottles or tipped my card and plastic into the green bin. She always used to accompany me as I took the bin round from the back of the house to the front, running ahead to make sure the coast was clear and then waiting patiently by the front door to be let in for some nibbles as she used the house as a shortcut back into the garden.

And today I went out and she wasn’t there. No tell-tale jingle of her collar, or the rattle of the gate as she jumped through it. Nothing.

It sucked.

Absolutely sucked.

Because I was still checking where I was walking to make sure I didn’t trip over her. Still checking the the coast was clear before I moved the bins. Still doing things I did all the time when she was still about. I know that she’s not about anymore. But I can’t stop doing the things…

I almost want us to get another cat, just to fill the void left by a cat that wasn’t ours. The stuff with Trixie is almost like the plot to War Horse – everyone takes responsibility for it at some point but only two people every actually owned it. It’s the same with Trixie. She was everyone’s cat, by virtue of her unashamedly just meandering into people’s houses and making herself at home, but only one person actually owned her.

I don’t even want to put the bins out anymore because it seems wrong to do it without my little buddy. Peppa doesn’t accompany me. She just sits and watches. Anything could happen to me as I round the corner. Trixie used to run on ahead to make sure I’d be safe, and then wait for me to catch up. Peppa’s too chicken when it comes to things like that. She sits there and says, “You’re on your own, my friend.” And then when she knows I’m safe she’ll mooch round to see what’s what. And if I wasn’t safe I bet she’d mooch round and feed on my corpse.

It’s not the same.

Every now and again I think that if I had just called to her as she walked past the house earlier in the day, could I have saved her life. If I’d got her to come in for some food and a mooch, would I have changed where she was at the fateful time. It’s the Butterfly Effect, but for a cat. Or Sliding Doors.

A cat for pity’s sake.

Not even our cat.