As I am writing this, a neighbour is digging a hole near our fence.
Our cat, sometimes called Kucing or Cing - the latest in a series of perhaps 10 cats over the years to bear that name - was found dead and decayed just now, caught in a fishing net, just beside spare tractor tyres.
The fire ants have got to him, putting time of death at around perhaps two to three days.
Fly larvae - perhaps third generation - and state of decomposition seems to corroborate this.
The cat was not seen for the past two days, though my father believes he saw it last, fighting with a neighbour's cat.
Cing never had any wants, except for trying to be a housecat. It tried at any opportunity to get in and sleep on the laundry.
For the sake of the kids, my parents never allowed this, condemning the cat to forever roam the lawn and the entire village.
For the past year, a skin disease had almost crippled Cing. He lost most of his fur and his whiskers dropped.
He had not been a terribly big cat. Even though food was given in abundance, he rarely ate more than half. Preferring instead to woo the female cats next door.
The gold-digging female cats only wanted to steal Cing's food, but rarely, if ever, allowed Cing to fuck them.
Cing should have gone to Thailand, where the Siamese kittens are more transparent and honest in their tactics.
Cing had not lived a happy, pampered life.
He endured an adequate existence.
And his death was probably a welcome respite.
Goodbye, Kucing.
