The old fella stirred sleepily in his basket as the pig farmer reminded him it was gone 11 and chucking out time. He showed no signs of wanting to wake up properly, let alone be turfed out of the kitchen into a draughty barn.
So I picked the basket up and carried him out to the workshop area of the barn and placed him gently in a quiet corner on top of the washing machine. He stirred, looked up and tucked himself back in.
And that was the last time I saw Trevor.
We’ve hunted neighbouring fields and derelict buildings, asked neighbours, put up a poster in the local shop and shouted myself hoarse, but he’s not been seen since April 2 and I’ve long since resigned myself to the fact he’s not coming back.
Trev first turned up 13 years ago, brought back to Sally’s house in Wolverhampton by her youngest son and, cheerfully ignoring the fact they were leaving for a holiday in Tenerife two days later, the decision was made to keep him.
Even more determinedly independent than most cats, Trevor became a family favourite very quickly, doing exactly what he wanted, when he wanted.
Long-time readers of the blog will recall his move from Wolverhampton to my house in Shrewsbury and then the long haul with me in the van up to Orkney a couple of years later. The full story is here.
Once safely in Orkney, Trevor settled in, enjoying the open spaces and becoming king of the barn, although proving absolutely useless at catching mice (that’s townies for you). And even with the arrival of Frida the feral-turned-very tame cat, he seemed happy enough in a grumpy old git kind of way.
Trev – who also couldn’t “miaow” properly – had used up several of his lives already and now it looks as if his ninth has gone the same way. I miss him.
Cheerio old mate.