Frank: an Obituary
March 10th, 2025
Yesterday, I buried one of my best friends. Frank, Frank Moggington, Miggly Mog or just ‘Miggles’ was our constant companion for eleven years and eight months.
Our story begins the day he was born in Dyce to a prawn-loving mother and a prize-fighting father. We would not meet him for another five weeks, but it was while on holiday in Cambridge, my first with my then girlfriend Cat, lazing on the banks of the Cam under balmy weather that we decided we should get a pet. We were unanimous: a ginger cat – Beryl if a girl, Frank if a boy.
Finding him wasn’t so easy, though. We had both recently started new jobs, leaving little scope to answer the small ads. When we did, we found the cats had already been sold. One morning, however, I found a quiet corner at work and answered a brand new listing. Later that day we had found him. The only problem was that we had to come back the next day as we’d neglected to purchase a carry box – much less a bed, litter tray, cat food bowls, cat food – you know, all the things Frank would need. Anyway, box or not, he spent the whole of the short journey back to Aberdeen cuddling into my jumper, emitting regular peeps. Peeps which would eventually evolve into the loudest purr in the world.
As he grew older – through regular rough and tumble sessions with me and cuddles from Cat – our flat became a problem. He would run the length of it in seconds, tagging us on the shoulder as passed. Then he’d spend hours looking out the front window at the world (and the birds) beyond, but we were too afraid to let him out due to the fast-moving cars outside. We became engaged, started looking for somewhere bigger for ourselves and found an old headmaster’s house in Arnage, Aberdeenshire. When viewing it, we decided to take Frank with us and, within seconds of surveying the newly-carpeted house, he lay down and declared for us, “this is the one.” A few weeks later, we moved in. Shortly after, Frank was given his first taste of outdoor life. He took his first few steps crouched, cautiously appraising the coarse blades of grass and stones. Then he ran, and he sprang straight up the tree at the other end of the garden. An hour later, as cat’s seem to be pre-programmed to do, he jumped up to the window to let us know he wanted to come in. Only he wasn’t alone. Underneath the sill sat the neighbour’s cat, Puss, with whom he enjoyed a friendly rivalry for years.
The following Valentines Day he was rewarded with his first cat flap, and his first and possibly only planned visit to the vet to have his bits off. It was the making of Frank the hunter: from the Schoolhouse to Mintlaw, critters met to warn each other in hushed tones of the ginger assassin (unfairly named, he was always more toffee than ginger). Every morning we were presented with voles, shrews, rabbits, birds and, one time, a mole that was, as they often were, still very much alive. If we managed to catch a vole and re-release it outside, it felt like a triumph. Frank, of course, would assist us, trying to recatch his catch, until we closed him in the spare room. Soon he was joined by another keen hunter: his ‘sister’ Tilly, our Bengal / Maine Coon cross with whom he enjoyed cuddles and brawls alike, until we closed him in the spare room.
These keen hunting skills helped Frank enjoy a varied diet and almost certainly kept him strong during a three week holiday he took – God knows where. We canvassed the neighbourhood several times, drove and cycled for miles, but he could not be found. Then, one Sunday night, as we watched someone appraise a particularly ugly vase on the Antiques Roadshow, we heard the cat flap sound and he walked in, licking his lips and miaowing for his missed suppers. He seemed absolutely fine, so no need for a visit to the vet. But, another time his hind leg was clipped by the only car on the road – which just goes to show you, doesn’t it? It also gave Frank the chance to break the record for the shortest time to escape the cone of shame – one he still holds.
After the pandemic, and with Frank cutting his unscheduled holidays down to 9 days, we realised we missed people and moved back to Aberdeen. This time home became a house in a quiet cul-de-sac near Duthie Park with a back garden. Frank and Tilly could still come and go as they pleased, but the critter body count massively decreased and yet Frank didn’t quite settle into his pipe and slippers, setting up new rivalries with several neighbourhood moggies.
Then, this weekend, we came back to find only Tilly queuing up at the food bowl. Frank was upstairs. I picked him up and he wailed. Another scrap we thought, hoping he would just shake it off. But he wouldn’t eat his pouch of Felix. We opened the mackerel pate we’d bought for our lunch and offered him some. Nothing. We put down a litter tray. He wouldn’t use it. With heavy hearts, we packed him into his carry box, hearing him cry and hiss. Then we had the conversation with the vet.
We were given time with Frank to say our goodbyes. He was sat, comfortably in his box, bandages on his paws. He had been given morphine for the pain and when I placed my hand on him and rubbed, that famous loud purr sounded. I stayed with him for what felt like a lifetime, though in reality it was mere minutes, rubbing the back of his neck, the purr remaining constant. He opened his eyes and looked at me. He seemed to be saying, “I’m ready.” I think we both knew we were saying goodbye.
Frank was always a good traveller. We would drive for miles without a sound coming from his carrier. Today the silence was deafening. As we arrived in our driveway, the denouement to Brahms’ German Requiem began playing on the radio. We paused for a minute and observed the passing of our friend.
We buried him just after 10am on Sunday 9th March in our back garden, next to the fence where he would come and go. As we laid him in the ground, I played ‘Broken Wave’ by Frank’s favourite singer James Yorkston (this is true, there’s something about James’s voice and the light vibrations of acoustic guitar that he seemed to love. It was the only thing we knew that would chill him out) and we stood by the fence and hugged before filling in his grave.
Frank was loveably complex. For all the paw hugs and intense headbutts he would give, he could turn and clamp his claws and teeth into my forearm. In fact, I have scars that have outlived him. But he was one of my best friends and there’s a huge hole in me right now. I know time will heal, but it will take much longer than the cruel speed at which he was taken from us.
As I climbed the stairs to my office this afternoon, Tilly looked me straight in the eyes and she winked. Three times, she winked. And, whether I believe in an afterlife or not, I knew – those winks were from Frank letting me know he is at peace, he doesn’t blame us and that we might have buried him a little less close to where he defecated.
