Our treasured family cat reappeared when we all needed him the most… By Rose Janes, 63
As Dad pointed the camera at us, I glanced up to the figure next to me and said: ‘I’m so proud of you, Mummy.’
In her crisp white shirt, tie, smart black suit and hat, I thought she looked marvellous.
I was 10 years old, and my mum Joyce had just qualified as one of the first traffic wardens in the country.
She had been the only woman on the training programme, and to me, she was a superhero.
Every evening, when she came home from work, I adored hearing her tales about the characters she met patrolling the city.
And Mum quickly became well-known and well-liked in the community.
She was a people person, and even those she gave tickets to struggled to be cross with her!
Years passed, and my diligent mum rose through the ranks.
‘Not bad for a girl with no proper education,’ she’d say.
Mum had endured a tough childhood. One of six, her mother had died shortly after she was born. Her dad had struggled to cope, so Mum had been fostered and received very limited schooling.
It made her professional achievements all the more impressive.
In time, I left home, got married and had two beautiful children, Paul and Michelle.
Life plodded happily along until one day, when Mum was 58, she called me, and I could instantly tell something was wrong.
‘I found a lump in my neck,’ she said. ‘I’ve had it checked out, and I’ve got non-Hodgkin lymphoma.’
‘Oh, Mum,’ I replied.
Then I clasped my hand to my mouth as she explained the only treatment available was to extend her life expectancy.
As soon as I put the phone down, I left my home in Monmouth, and drove the half-hour journey to see her.
‘I’ll fight this, love,’ she told me. ‘Don’t worry, there’s still years in me yet.’
Brave Mum was put on an intensive course of chemotherapy and radiotherapy and tried to stay positive.
Only her diagnosis meant she had to take early retirement from her beloved job.
‘It’s been my life for over 30 years,’ she told me. ‘I can’t imagine what I’m going to do without it.’
Privately, I was a little worried too. Mum hadn’t just enjoyed her role but also socialising with her colleagues.
My lovely dad, Trevor, was more introverted, and the pair of them lived out in the sticks. I was concerned that, apart from family, visitors would be few and far between.
How will Mum cope with the change of pace? I fretted.
Luckily, at first, the house was constantly bustling with friends and old workmates.
‘Maybe I was flapping for no reason,’ I said to my daughter Michelle, now 18.
Only, as Mum’s health deteriorated, her guests became less and less frequent.
Every time I saw her, she seemed to have faded a little more.
One afternoon, as I sat by her bedside, she said: ‘Rose, I’m lonely.’
Back home, my daughter and I racked our brains thinking of ways to cheer her up.
Then one evening, Michelle returned from her shift at the local pub and said: ‘Mum, I think I’ve got it!’
She told me that one of her regulars had a cat who had just had a litter.
‘Gran’s always loved animals,’ she said excitedly. ‘I thought a kitty could be the perfect companion for her.’
Both Mum and I agreed it was a wonderful idea, and we went to see the kindle of kittens.
Mum took a shine to a ginger tomcat right away. I watched her pick him up and stroke him, and her face brightened instantly.
‘You’re a sweet little thing, aren’t you?’ she said.
As I drove Mum home, with a teeny orange fluffball nestled on her lap, Michelle said: ‘I think we should call him Tango.’
‘Tango,’ Mum repeated. ‘Yes, I like that.’
And as soon as he padded through Mum’s front door, she was devoted to him. Caring for him gave Mum a sense of purpose and routine, but that wasn’t all.
As weeks went on, we learnt what a remarkable feline he truly was.
‘If I’m feeling really under the weather, I’m sure he can tell,’ Mum told me. ‘He’ll snuggle next to me in bed for hours and let me stroke him.’
I’d often pop around and find Mum talking to Tango too.
He was the perfect furry therapy.
Months went by. And even though her health was failing her, with Tango as her right-hand mog, Mum’s sparkle returned.
Dad adored him too, and my parents both fussed over him terribly.
Sadly, although Tango did so much for Mum’s mental and physical health, he couldn’t get rid of her cruel disease.
Three years after Tango came into her life, Macmillan nurses recommended Mum go into a hospice.
It was the news we’d been dreading, and Mum was distraught. Part of that was leaving her cherished cat.
Cradling him before she left, she said: ‘I love you very, very much, Tango.’
Later, Dad called me, sounding concerned.
‘Tango’s not himself,’ he said. ‘He’s moping around the house, looking for your mum.’
Next day, Dad and I went to visit Mum. Before we headed in, Dad took me aside.
‘Tango’s gone missing,’ he said.
The ginger puss had gone out the previous night and not returned.
‘That’s not like him,’ I said.
We debated whether to tell Mum as the last thing we wanted to do was upset her. But we reasoned that she’d want to know. And her response took us both aback.
‘He’ll come back when the time is right,’ she said calmly.
After being in the hospice just three days, Mum passed away at the age of 65. We were all heartbroken.
In between arranging Mum’s funeral, Dad and I looked for Tango. We knocked on doors, put up flyers and rang animal shelters. But it was to no avail.
It was as though Tango had gone off to find Mum.
After her funeral, our family tried to find its feet without her around. But we struggled, especially on occasions like Christmas and birthdays.
Mum had always been the life and soul of the party and celebrating without her felt wrong.
Dad was particularly dreading the first anniversary of her death.
‘I’ll come around to see you straight after work,’ I told him.
‘Thanks, sweetheart,’ he said.
But I knew he was low, so I wasn’t surprised when he rang me early in the morning exactly a year after Mum’s passing.
I was, however, very surprised by what he said.
‘Rose, you’re not going to believe this,’ Dad said, ‘but Tango’s back!’
In disbelief, I listened as Dad told me how he’d opened the curtains in the lounge to find Tango perched on the wall of the driveway, as if he’d never left!
‘Are you sure it’s him?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ Dad replied. ‘He has the same nick on his ear from when he was in that cat fight.’
It was incredible. I headed around straightaway to find Dad snuggling up with Tango on the sofa.
He was over the moon to have the fantastic feline back. We both saw it as a sign from Mum — that she was OK, and that we needed to keep going without her.
‘I didn’t know how I was going to get through today,’ Dad said. ‘But this fluffball has turned it on its head.’
‘Mum said he’d come back when the time was right,’ I replied, welling up.
Later, we heard that during his year away, Tango had been living with someone with a terminal illness nearby.
‘It’s like he has a radar, and knows when people need him,’ Dad said.
Now, I’m so grateful Tango was there to comfort Mum during her final years, then returned to help Dad too.
He’s a moggy in a million.