As I was writing the most recent Blog, I realized I had neglected to write about a sad and important event in our lives, the death of Charlie, our 14-year-old male cat. A mellow, loveable indoor/outdoor cat who thought he was a dog. He became great friends with Buster.
Charlie came to us at 6 weeks old along with his sister Tigger, originally to be barn cats. That soon changed. Tigger was cranky as Charlie was content. She disappeared four years earlier without a trace. Perhaps a fox.
Charlie was noble. We called him Sir Charles. He was a character. We had named him after Charlie Chaplin – being black and white and having a distinct moustache.
Here is a belated poem to honour the memory of Charlie, who is buried by a boulder in our north garden. A perennial flower bed is planted now at his grave.

Charlie the cat was tough as nails
He used to sit on the cedar fence rails
And watch in the grass for any trace
Of mice or a mole so good to the taste
He used up most of his daring nine lives
Well before he actually died
More than once he caused such distress
To dear old mother whom he tried to impress
With some dead carcass of rat or bird
Such shrieking of mother you never have heard.
We loved him so much and miss him a lot
But know by his memory he’ll not be forgot.