Suburban life comes into its own in the summer. Warm sunlit evenings, walks to the pub or the park, and almost always on venturing up Milton Road, an encounter with Hank. His tarty ways were a joy to all; he wasn't proud like some cats. Instead he would greet you as a long lost friend, with noisy miaow. Then, if picked up, he would purr like a Bentley's engine and curl across your shoulders. To put him down was an affront.
He had many homes, and no homes; no owners exactly but many owners, who all took turns at feeding him and getting treatment for him at the vets. They were with him when after a long life, he slipped away yesterday.