Let me tell you about Chester the cat. Chester Bobbins, as he became, because like so many other pets he acquired a nickname to go with his real one. No idea why. But I’ll try and describe his character and see if we can work out where that epithet came from.

Born on a farm in Ryal, he came to us with his brother Felix just before Christmas in 2005 and immediately hid under a shelving unit for the next seven days, only to emerge once he’d decided that this was going to be his forever home.

As he got older he would venture out into the garden, but generally only in the summer. Winter could go hang as far as he was concerned. While he wasn’t really one for cuddles indoors, he would stick to you like glue once we went outside. And he would love to hover under the table if there was a hint of bacon in the air.

I once saw him on the lawn with a mouse at his mercy. I used all my hostage negotiation skills to persuade him that he wouldn’t want blood on his hands and, once the mouse put his fists up – that really happened – Chester backed down and let him go. Soft isn’t the word.

As the years went by, he found his favourite spots in the house and developed his own habits. The left side of the big sofa was his and his alone, and he would produce a very stern frown if you tried to muscle in on his territory. He was also often found on the little landing area halfway up our staircase (which we rather grandly refer to as the “mezzanine”.) He would find his way into the kitchen and scrounge like a Labrador whenever we were eating – he could hear us get a frying pan out from up to 100 yards away – and would go out into the garden for ten minutes every night just before we went to bed.

He did worry his brother occasionally though, especially when they were eating. We would often have to stand guard to make sure that Felix got his fair share of the spoils, because if we looked the other way Chester would muscle his brother out of the way and eat the lot. You might get the impression that he was driven by food, and I think you’d be right.

He loved having his head scratched, even though it made him look like Yoda

He appeared from the garden one day when he was much younger, with what became known as his raggedy ear, which he had obviously gained in a fight with one of the local feline ne’er-do-wells. I asked him who had done that to him, but he wouldn’t tell me. Chester was many things but he was never a grass.

Most experts seem to think that fourteen years is a good age for a cat, provided they have an easy life and never cross a road. So when he reached eighteen in October this year we were delighted still have him around. And an easy life was definitely what he had; he had become an expert at lazing about and not doing anything, which is something I can only aspire to.

He learned to tolerate strangers, and not run away when people came to the house, although that may have more to do with the fact that he was becoming less mobile as he passed the expected age of a cat.

For all that, the end came suddenly for him. He had a seizure, I rushed him to the vets but we had to let him go. I stroked him and talked to him as he slipped away; a very difficult thing to do but very necessary. I like to think he was comforted in his distress by being accompanied by that guy who fed him all his life. Maybe he even thought he was going to get one last bit of bacon.

So that was Chester; he will always be a part of us, and I will forever look to see where he is when I’m cooking bacon. Maybe he will be watching from somewhere or other; maybe he won’t. Maybe his brother Felix will get more bacon from now on; maybe he won’t.

But I will never work out why we called him Bobbins.

Chester (Bobbins) – 5 October 2005 – 6 November 2023. Quite a decent innings for a raggedy-eared cat.