the single life

Sir Frederick Gorky was the type of man who was not inclined to covet his neighbours' posessions. He was rather proud of his comfortable, respectable-looking townhouse in the surburbs of London, and his large collection of stamps from all over the world, some dating back to the early 18th century. Although he had lost his left foot in the Second World War as a young man-- and the love of his first wife as a result-- Sir Gorky accepted these misfortunes as a counterbalance to the many blessings he felt he had recieved later on in life.

"One does not recieve a perfect collector's set. It is something to be acquired through trial, tribulation, and a bit of luck," he liked to say, stroking his favourite stockbook of extremely rare Madagascan stamps. His aging gray tabby Thorace would meow softly in response, scratching absent-mindedly at a stray piece of carpeting on the stairs. Thorace had been Sir Gorky's companion for eight years, and his presence seldom failed to surprise the occasional and increasingly rare visitors to Sir Gorky's home.

"Who knew that the crusty old geezer had a soft spot- for a fat cat? Oh, and I daresay that it was ugly as sin!"

Yes, Thorace was a bit hefty, but Sir Gorky liked him that way. Despite his own austere lifestyle, which included a lot of dry toast (no butter) and Tetley English Breakfast tea, he took great pleasure in feeding Thorace the most sumptious and fattening of cat foods. After his ample meals, Thorace would pad about the house lazily, emitting his distinctive meows of satisfaction. Occasionally, he would also fart- but Sir Gorky didn't mind that. He liked Thorace's presence in the house just the way it was- he could feel it, but not enough to feel intruded on. In fact, Sir Gorky had grown so fond of Thorace's unintrusive companionship that he rarely left the house, except to pick up his usual can of beans, brown bread, and eggs at the local grocers.

One fine Sunday morning, Sir Gorky was sitting in his usual armchair, poring over a new package from Australia containing freshly minted stamps commemorating Australia's aborigional culture. As he carefully picked up a stamp with metal tweezers to place into a sleeve of his stampbook, he heard a loud crashing of glass and wood that reverbarated like thunder throughout the still house.

"What in bloody heavens?!" Sir Gorky rose unsteadily to his feet, his thin body trembling with sudden adrenaline. Somewhere at the back of the house, near the kitchen, Sir Gorky heard Thorace meow softly.

When he arrived, Thorace was already dead. The scene was something akin to the tableau from Martin Scorcese's film Taxi Driver. In lieu of bullet holes and dead pimps, there was shattered glass, ceramics and a badly squished cat under a large display cabinet. Thorace's grey head was facing the kitchen entrace, where Sir Gorky stood frozen with terror and shock. His eyes, black and lifeless, and his mouth had remained open, as if in mid-scream. "Ahh," Thorace seemed to be gasping. "Ahhhh."

Sir Gorky began to tremble uncontrollably, gripping a chair for support. He wrenched his eyes away from Thorace's strained face, and staggered haphazardly toward his armchair. He collapsed onto it heavily, knocking over his metal tweezers and a few rows of stamps in the process. He felt something in the very core of his head snap, slightly above the junction of his skull and neck. An overwhelmingly profound grief enveloped him. He squeezed his eyes shut and saw again Thorace's sad, gasping face. "Ahhhh."

Almost a fortnight later, the milkman finally decided to investigate the mystery of Sir Gorky's uncollected, curdled milk. Sir Gorky's feisty Mexican neighbour Francesca Lopez, who knew where the spare key was hidden, entered the house with the milkman lingering uneasily at the door. Moments later, she ran out screaming hyterically and cursing in Spanish. The milkman trembled with fear and anticipation, but dared not enter.

The police found Sir Gorky's corpse slumped on his armchair, with what came to 247 stockbooks of stamps stacked up all around him like a miniature fortress. In his arms was his badly decomposed and flattened cat, its arms and legs spread out in an eternal snow angel.

"Blimey, mate. That kitty smells like the arse of Satan 'imself," one of the police officers said, breaking the silence. The others nodded or grunted their agreement, and pinched their noses.

A note, written with neat, legible writing was found in Sir Gorky's blazer pocket.

"Dear sir or madam,

I have asked for nothing more than some peace, quiet, and balance in my life. By balance, I mean some form of compensation for the many misfortunes I have endured. I am fortunate enough to have enjoyed just compensation for the past decade or so, especially with my dearest feline companion Thorace. So in the light of this most recent misfortune, which is to say his most untimely death, I would request that you auction off my stamp collection, and donate the proceeds to The Royal Philatelic Society London.

Also, I should like my and Thorace's ashes to be scattered over a beach in Madagascar. The name of it escapes me at this time due to my grief, but if you look in page 201 of stampbook volume iii, there is only one stamp on the entire page with a beach on it. I should like very much to be blessed one last time."