A Tribute to Rani

S. R. Murthy

Iffley, Oxford

15 August 2024

Rani, my late Somali cat who died in mid-August 2021, first came to me in late April 2018, when she was about 12 weeks old, and I was living and working in a rural corner of south Oxfordshire.

She arrived from her breeder in a pet removal van, and I remember the driver saying, as he handed me the pet carrier in which she came, that she was very noisy during the journey and had very dog-like qualities. For a small kitten she seemed to be fine after a relatively long journey.

I had never owned a Somali before, and two things I noticed immediately about Rani were the rich coat, which was a mixture of orange, ginger and copper tones, and the luxuriant, oversized tail. When she moved in the sunlight the coat seemed to glow or burn, and the tail weaved its magic. Some people said she looked like a fire sprite.

She made little noise as I let her out of the carrier and into the living room, and appeared tense and anxious for a few hours as I tried to settle her on the sofa. One moment I remember well in these first few hours, and which I still think about, was when I went across to the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee, and looked back to see her meow anxiously at me, perhaps because she thought she was going to be left alone. She relaxed as I went back to her. From this moment we formed a bond that would last until her death, and which I feel still exists, although it is now for me a bond of memory - remembering and reliving all the beautiful, messy, frustrating and wonderful "Rani moments" in my life.

She grew up very quickly. Within weeks of her arrival, despite still being quite small and slight, she had managed to climb up a trellis in the back garden onto the roof of the conservatory. Another memorable - and scary - moment was when, one day, a month or so later, during a period of unsettled weather, she did not return from her usual evening rounds of exploring the neighbouring gardens in the village. I feared that she may have been lost, or trapped somewhere, or injured. I printed lost cat posters with her picture and went around the village to hand them out, letting people know of Rani’s disappearance and asking them to be on the lookout. I kept the back door to the garden open all day and night, in the hope that she would wander in. She finally showed up after two days, in (I think) the early hours of the morning, as I was giving up hope of ever seeing her again. I was tremendously relieved.

She was a typical Somali: very talkative, energetic, highly curious, playful, gentle and very affectionate. But she also had habits and traits which were her own. She would often be found in the early hours of the morning, curled up in a ball, sleeping near my feet. She liked my feet for some reason. Often, she would take a nap on my shoulder or chest, fully stretched out. Even for cats her agility was amazing: she could tiptoe across or perform turns on my antique, carved wooden chessboard without disturbing a single piece. Another Rani quality was the way she quietly took over my pillow during the night: it would usually start with her sleeping on a corner of the pillow, right next to my head, and end with her taking the pillow over and me having to shift to the other side.

All cats are curious explorers, but I think Rani was extreme in this regard. She was very much an outdoors cat, often spending much of the morning, afternoon and evening hours outside, roaming and exploring, in all weather. She was a well known “cat personality” in all of the places we lived in, with neighbours asking me whether the bright orange fire sprite in their gardens was mine. I allowed her this freedom because these locations were rural and very safe. Usually I was right: growing up with cats, and being a cat owner, I had a good sense of location and safe surroundings for cats. But unfortunately for Rani this would not last.

The last move with Rani was the most fateful. The house looked to be in a very safe, relatively unpopulated and quiet rural area. It was surrounded by fields and farmsteads. My mistake was in overlooking the dangers of the main road outside the boundary of the property. It was usually deserted, free of any traffic, especially so on weekends, but every now and then, for a few minutes, there would be a group of cars and other fast moving vehicles. This was a risk that I should have thought more about, and, as her owner, it’s something for which I have to take the blame for not doing so.

There’s no doubt that Sunday, August 15, 2021, the day on which Rani died, was the worst day of my life. And the days, weeks and months afterwards were like a constant replay of that day. There is a physical and mental pain associated with losing a beloved pet that is hard to describe.

Obviously, I don’t like to think about it, especially because, looking back now, there are some circumstances of her death which seem a little suspicious. The last movements of her satellite GPS tracker - usually available 24 / 7 and very reliable, and which I examined closely for several weeks afterwards - were not consistent with the location where she was found. The data indicated that she had stopped moving within the grounds of the property, which included not just my house but other buildings and gardens. But she was found lying on a section of the grass verge of the road outside the property. This, and some other details about her GPS collar and placement on the verge, don’t make sense to me. Of course, I could be wrong, but I believe someone somewhere knows more about Rani’s death than I know. If that person could step forward and give their account I would be grateful, but this seems unlikely now.

Almost everything about this period was painful, but several events were particularly so: inspecting Rani’s lifeless but mostly undamaged body in the veterinary clinic (not the usual practice where she was registered, but a different one to which she was taken by one of the people who had found her); arranging for her to be taken to a pet crematorium; collecting her cremated remains in a small wooden box; taking her remains on a two and half hour train journey to another pet cemetery which was selected for her burial; watching the preparation of her burial site; burying the box with my own hands and watching the burial hole being filled up with soil; placing flowers on the site; leaving the cemetery and going back home.

There is always some pain in thinking about Rani, but it has become more manageable over time. I think it has to do with the way time changes the perception and memory of events, softening the rough edges imperceptibly. Small acts and rituals of remembrance have helped: erecting a memorial on her burial site; laying flowers - or arranging for flowers to be laid - on the memorial site; making and sharing some tribute videos; creating a bound photo album of her best pictures; arranging for an etching of her from one of her best pictures.

If cats can be friends then Rani was my best friend. There is some comfort in knowing that she loved and trusted me to the end. I wish I could have protected her from the terrible event which claimed her life. She was more than a cat to me. She was a true companion. I’ve looked after another (Somali) cat since Rani, but Rani was very special. She is always in my thoughts and in my heart.