Charlie

Hardly a day goes by without me remembering my old ginger tom cat, Charlie.

I haven't got a digital photo of him so I'll try and paint a picture of him with words.  Think:

- slightly overweight
- fiendishly handsome
- somewhat battle scarred
- the size of a small panther
- a bit of an old rogue.

In list format (I like lists) are some of my favourite memories:

- watching a neighbours bull terrier (Tyson - you get the picture) charging towards him before she slowly reared up to full height and chased the now retreating dog back down the road (causing his owner much embarrassment and me much pride)

- wondering why he was sneaking through our next door neighbour's kitchen window with the stealth of a tiger stalking its next victim, and then realising that he had stolen her freshly roasted chicken off her worktop and back out into the garden to eat it

- despite the above, the way that he made his way into Margaret's affections meaning we were never worried about him while we were away; he just moved in there with her

- the way he slouched on the sofa in front of the TV, one paw on the arm of the chair, legs agape in a mirror image of me

- retrieving the same poor toad about 8 times from a neighbours pond.  Every time I took it back he would return proudly with it a few minutes later.  "What d'ya think of that then, Dad?"

- watching other cats get up from Charlie's favourite sunbathing spot when he ventured into sight and claimed his spot.

The best though, was the first time he met Corinne's John.  John foolishly managed to sit in Charlie's spot on the sofa.  Charlie sat on the floor, unmoved, with his back to all of us and his nose pressed firmly against the wall for about 2 hours.  The second John got up to leave, he calmly turned around and reclaimed his spot.  The look he gave John could have killed a man stone dead at 30 yards!

I still miss him.