Pickle was the real (and I truly mean it) centre of our tiny Universe where he was King, and a fearless explorer. The house, the garden and the whole street (within its borders: he knew the rules) was under his constant supervision and protection.
In the lingering summer days he loved idling on his chair in the garden, and even pticy mesti (aka birds of revenge, special creatures who sometimes visit naughty cats in random hours) wouldn’t interrupt him.
He had that lovely slightly cracky voice that became very loud if he was hungry or displeased with a possible lack of attention (pretending it could happen, although it never did, of course: he was *that* important, after all). His purring was the most soothing thing ever: once you felt sad or poorly, his constant sweet grumbling would cure you in seconds.
Once we lost him; many of you may remember this story when he was locked in one of the neighbouring houses 7 years ago: due to construction works going on inside, the labourers kept the door slightly ajar, and our boy sneaked in and was stuck in there for a few days. While we were searching for him in total despair, the workers fed him and made him an improvised bed upstairs until one of them spotted our leaflet with Pickle’s info. The reunion was one of the happiest days in my life: we found him, and he purred even louder, with a tint of apology for the minor inconvenience.
He had always appeared on our kitchen window from the outside, waiting patiently when his silly hoomans invite him for his well deserved feasts, and we did, of course: there was a special protocol for doing so, and your own voice was supposed to be as warm and mellow as possible.
Pickle was a fighter: even when the sarcoma had already spread over his back, he kept going about his life as if nothing had happened.
He was the best cat ever and he was our angel. The void in our hearts is enormous. He won’t be forgotten.
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