While I was baking butterfly cakes for our good friends Catherine and Martin, who are also our neighbours at Number Seven, I was thinking about our once beloved pet, Jess the cat. He was half feral, extremely clever, very masculine (even after the operation he maintained his macho swagger) and what he lacked in the ability to show or receive affection he more than made up for in character and personality. In fact he often showed a kind tolerance for his owners, like the time he came home with a nasty cut above his right ear and, knowing full well that I would not be taking him to an expensive vet, Jess permitted me to minister to his wound with tea-tree oil, cotton wool and a bandage made from an old white sheet; Bless his heart, he went outside and returned some minutes later looking like a violated Egyptian mummy. Unwittingly, our marvellous cat was an advocate of the old adage, “Laughter is the best medicine” – admittedly, he didn’t realise he was being funny when, hearing the familiar snap at the end of a small glass tube containing his flea treatment, he reversed as we advanced, and he nearly walked backwards up the kitchen wall.

Poor Jess the cat met an untimely and tragic end, not guarding his territory or seeing off the marauding rats which had been so prevalent that year, but as a result of the poison one neighbour had laid down in his garden for those same rats. My friend Catherine was the person who found him in the long grass.

“Jess is dead,” Catherine blurted out and cried on that summer evening some twelve years ago.

“Oh no!” said Chris and I in unison, “But we saw her only yesterday!”

“Not my Jess (Catherine’s daughter) – your Jess… the cat!”

Therefore it was with great relief that we became aware that the dead body in Bill Robinson’s garden was that of poor Jess the cat. I shall never forget the look of agony on his face, his missing teeth (that were hardly noticeable in life), the huge size of his stiff body and the dead weight. And we’ll never forget the burial… What is one supposed to do with a big dead cat?

Chris and I thought it would be nice to bury Jess up on Haldon Moor, about four miles from our home in Dawlish. Unfortunately, the topsoil on Haldon Moor is just a few inches thick. Numerous efforts with a pick and spade in different spots revealed there was a greater likelihood in starting a fire than digging a hole deep enough to hold our dear departed for the substrate is all flint. Hence, in the absence of a hole (and perhaps due in part to some primeval urge), we decided to build a traditional Viking funeral pyre of old logs; we agreed not to set the pyre alight (although the task would have been simple enough with all that flint around) and instead, covered the pyre with more heavy logs to keep our cat’s body safe from any wild animals. As Chris and I – bearing a pick, spade, garden fork and two black rubbish sacks – came out from the wooded area to where our car was parked we noticed a cyclist had stopped and was looking at us very intently… and suspisciously.

“Just burying the cat,” called out Chris as nonchalantly as possible while he loaded the boot with the tools.

The cyclist looked very grave.

Now if you’re wondering why I was thinking about Jess the cat whilst I was baking cakes for Catherine and Martin… Well, when we met up with Catherine out by our gate this morning, and we asked her how she was, our friend seemed rather perturbed.

“Not the best, actually,” Catherine began, “you see, Martin and I have been feeding Jane and Rollo’s cats for them while they’re away, and when I went in the other morning I noticed straight away that their big ginger cat was sprawled out on the kitchen floor. At first I thought he was asleep but then I thought he seemed rather large and stiff…”

“Oh dear…” I said.

“Yes, quite,” Catherine knew we understood. “What do you do with a dead cat? They’re so…”

“Big and heavy,” I nodded.

“Yes, Rollo suggested we put him in the freezer but….” Catherine paused.

“No! Have you seen ‘Doc’ Martin’?” I took up the pause.

“Yes! Not with food in a freezer. Martin buried him…”

“Not up on Haldon?” Chris and I asked together.

“No, we remembered about your experience with the flint and buried him in their garden,” said our friend ruefully.

So I made them some nice butterfly cakes to help cheer them up.