Paw Prints in the Moonlight by Denis O'Connor

It’s the place where people gather of an evening to relax over a drink and talk, namely the village public house. Felton has two pubs: the Northumberland Arms and the Stag’s Head. Over the course of several nights and a weekend soliciting gossip in the two aforementioned hostelries, I discovered that there was a woman who bred pedigree cats in the nearby village of Shilbottle. In Shilbottle Post Office my attention was directed to a typed note amongst the advertisements with an address in the village where pedigree cats were for sale.
    It didn’t take me long to find the cottage which was set back from the road in an extensive garden. I walked up the well-kept drive that was bordered with a wide variety of flowering plants and shrubs. A Victorian-style wrought-iron gate led to an inner paved area and a huge front door. The cottage branched out on both sides of the frontage in keeping with the style of the period. The windows upstairs had old-fashioned wooden shutters which I noticed were closed even on this warm, sunny afternoon. It struck me as rather odd but then possibly there had been a bereavement or loss in the family which necessitated a time for mourning. I did not wish to intrude unnecessarily on private feelings but I
was anxious to pursue my quest, so I rang the bell and waited in anticipation. A frail woman of mature age answered the door and, on hearing my inquiry, invited me inside. I introduced myself to her and learned that she was called Sarah Erskins, that she was a widow who lived with her daughter and that she was a specialist breeder of thoroughbred cats.
    There were well-groomed cats everywhere in the sitting room into which I was shown. There were Persian Longhairs, Colourpoint and Sealpoint, Siamese, Abyssinian Reds and Balinese Bluepoints, all of which she identified by name for my benefit, but there were no Maine Coons as far as I could tell. Over a cup of tea, standard local hospitality, I asked her if she’d ever had any Maine Coon cats. Her expression became serious and pained at my question and instead of answering she rose and walked over to an old writing desk just like the one my grandmother had. Rummaging about in the draws she withdrew a photograph album. Quickly turning the pages she found what she wanted and placed the album on my knees.
    There before me lay an enlarged photograph of a silver cream tabby female Maine Coon. Underneath was inscribed her name: Silver Girl Bonny and there was a certificate pasted on the same page which identified her as being registered with the Governing Council of the Cat Fancy (GCCF). I was both surprised and a little shocked to see
that the cat pictured was one and the same she-cat I had rescued on that fateful January night. There could be no mistake. At the sight of her picture I was transported briefly back in time to the wind-swept and tumbledown hayloft where I had found her with her kittens. Suddenly the voice of Mrs Erskins cut through my reverie and I looked up to see tears in her eyes.
    â€˜She was my Bonny,’ she said with feeling. ‘And we lost her! And I haven’t had the heart to seek a replacement for her. How could I?’
    With that she sat slowly down on the edge of her armchair and I waited patiently for her to go on.
    Holding her cup tightly in both hands, without drinking from it, she stared intently at the carpet as she recounted the story of her loss.
    â€˜We were taking her to the Harrogate show along with Bluebell and Chi-Chi. Bonny was such a pet, I used to let her sit on my lap during most of the drive. I wish now I’d kept her in the show cage with the other two cats,’ she said tearfully and paused. I sipped my tea in silence until she was ready to go on.
    â€˜My daughter was driving and on the spur of the moment she decided to call at the Running Fox in Felton for a newspaper and some sweets for the long journey.’
    I nodded to indicate that I knew where she meant.
    â€˜Having