At wits end corner and deserted by my previous wife,
a little cat plonked itself on to my doorstep. ‘It’s been abandoned by
the mill, now closed’; said a neighbour as I reached the door. ‘They’re
all cupboard love, and they pry on birds and mice’ I said as I past her
on the path. ‘I do not wish to be impertinent, but you do not appear to
know much about cats’ she affirmed, ‘and this one appears to have taken
to you. Look, it’s trying to get in to your home. You’ve left your door
slightly ajar!’
Well, I took in Tibby, and he transformed my life
because whenever I was overcome with grief and despondency Tibby knew it
and would spring up and purr round my shoulder and in to my ear. I gave
Tibby the whole run of my home, and he never took unfair advantage. What
is more, the birds that landed in the garden were quite safe, Tibby
never as much as bothered them
Sadly, one day this adorable cat went out, never to
visibly return. However, I say visibly because a few weeks later, when I
sense he may well have been run over due to the close proximity of the
busy bypass, an experience more vivid than a dream appeared to me in the
night. Tibby was surrounded by brightness and peace, wanted me to know
he was OK. And – what was more – was so grateful for the kindness I had
given him. Indeed, a wonderful glow had come to me, a burden had been
lifted, and his soul and mine would meet up again.
Well, on the following page you’ll see a photo of
Tibby in my arms. All part of a newspaper article now the worse for age
which Doreen came across when I was about to throw it out! It relates to
1980 and tells its own story; or – more accurately – it highlights
within the Yorkshire Post. the price one may have to pay in speaking out
for the dumb and helpless. Yes indeed, it was published when I was
assistant – or vice! - to the Dean of what is known today as Dewsbury
Minster. Following on from its report, I was, asked to apologise to the
wife of the town’s leading family butcher who not only wore a fur coat
for worship in the cooler months, but her closest friend ran a local
mink farm in the country.
Well, I did as I was told; reiterated where I stood
and left her home with courtesy and dignity. Sadly, however, the dear
lady withdrew her covenanted giving to the Minster and transferred her
allegiance to a delightful looking country parish: one where the
huntsmen were known to gather before or after a Sunday hunt. I could
well have been ‘dragged over the coals’! However, my clerical superior
was a true gem of a man: ‘You’ve done what I requested of you, but she
prefers to worship along with her friend who runs a mink farm. Don’t
spend any more time bemoaning her transferring both her lofty collection
and her Sunday presence, elsewhere!” Such were akin to the words that
dear Canon Sharpe so graciously uttered. What a patient boss towards one
who so frequently ‘rocked the boat’ for animal rights during a four year
period!
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Animal Padre's
