Paw Prints in the Moonlight by Denis O'Connor Page A

parked in front of the shop she opened the rear
door of the Land Rover to get her handbag. Then she came around to my side and opened the passenger door to ask what she could get for me. At that exact moment two RAF jets flew low-level over the village. The noise was like a thunderclap and both of us nearly jumped out of our skins. Then I realized that Bonny was gone. She must have been startled when the planes flew over and fled. We never saw her again,’ she sobbed.
    â€˜We searched for hours but there was no sign of her. We never got to the show. In the evening both my son and daughter went looking for her as I was too upset to go. We have heard nothing since even though we’ve put notices around and offered a reward, nothing, nothing at all.’
    Her voice tailed off as she sagged back in her chair in despair. Looking at the expression on her face I remembered what it was like to lose a pet cat and never know what had happened to it. Only in this case, I did know and felt duty bound to try to ease this poor woman’s feelings but I hesitated in case I caused her even more grief.
    I looked again at the photograph. I had to be sure now that the she-cat I’d rescued and the missing Bonny were the same before I said anything to her. Just then my dilemma was resolved because she looked straight across at me and said, ‘You know something. Tell me,’ as she leaned forward in her chair. ‘Has she been found?’

    I spared her the gruesome details as far as I could. But I saw just how shaken she was to hear of Bonny’s death. For several minutes after I’d finished my account she remained silent, staring into the fire, then she said: ‘You say there’s a kitten? A hybrid?’
    I nodded, fearful now of what she might want.
    â€˜Tell me about the kitten,’ she said.
    I told her briefly about Toby Jug, how he looked and how he was and lastly how much he meant to me. Her face positively beamed as she said, dabbing at her eyes, ‘So there is a happy ending to this after all.’ A noise from the hallway announced that her daughter was home from work and, leaving her to retell the tale, I left. She followed me to the door and, pressing her frail hand on my shoulder, she thanked me for what I’d done for Bonny and her surviving kitten.
    I waved from the car as I drove away and reflected on the tremendous depth of feeling a pet animal can generate in a person’s life and then I recalled reading somewhere that the RSPCA had estimated that there were at least five million cat owners in the UK. So many people have a great affection for cats. I knew what Mrs Erskins was feeling because I felt the same way about Toby Jug.
    â€˜Well,’ I sighed to myself. ‘Now I know who his mother was perhaps I can trace his father as well.’
    This idea ranged through my mind until I arrived home. The thought kept coming back to me for days afterwards.
Eventually, I decided that at some time in the future I would have to investigate this whole matter further but then fate took a hand again.
    I cannot honestly say that Toby showed any emotion at the news about his mother but merely yawned in that off-hand way that cats have when they are bored with the conversation. I expect to him it was dim dark history and in no way to be confused with the bliss of his current life. Nevertheless, I did tell him about her as a matter of duty and for her sake. Now that I knew more about Toby’s background and inherited characteristics, I studied him with new eyes and decided that the two words I would add to the descriptions of a Maine Coon cat’s personality would be ‘mischievous’ and ‘perceptive’.
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    Toby Jug was remarkably brainy for a cat and sometimes quite deceptive with it. He was also quick to tune-in to what people were thinking, as I found out many times, including when I bought him a small red ball to play with whenever I had to leave him alone in