Well – there is no point in dressing this sad, sad news up in any other way.  Pushkin was knocked over and killed on the road on the 15th of September.  As I write (in mid October) I still can’t quite believe it.

We had got into a bit of a routine and Push would come rushing down the lane when I called her.  On this particular afternoon I had wandered up to meet her and carried her back to the yard whilst she purred and squiggled in my arms.  Half way down the path a pony snapped a twig in the field and she shot upright and peered over my shoulder with saucer eyes, trying to suss where the sound had come from.  I actually thought, ‘She’ll always be OK on the road, she’s so sharp and tuned in…’


I took her into the barn for some tea and she pottered about, rolling on the warm concrete whilst I filled watering cans to cheer up the geraniums (yes, yes, pelargoniums).  After a while she took her leave and walked off in the direction of the fields.

Not half an hour later, just after 5.30, the lady from up the road pulled into the yard.  I knew before she’d even opened her mouth what had happened.  She had seen a little dead tabby by the roadside and been kind enough to fetch her home, so that the dogs and I didn’t have to discover her body in the morning.  We have no idea who knocked her over, there are so few cars and, as I said, she was very sharp and savvy.  We’ll never know.  The only small plus was that she’d obviously gone very quickly and would have known nothing about it.  She had had a lovely summer and, even though she’d only been here for some nine months, she’ll always be fondly remembered as my little barn cat.

Pushkin is buried under the sycamore tree alongside many other dear creatures.  A virulent pox be upon the wretched person who must’ve been driving far, far too fast on a narrow country lane.

The last picture was taken not an hour before Pushkin died.  It is perhaps a good job we don’t know what is around the next corner…