Yet more 'Real or surreal?' (by Mike Kazybrid)

Towards the end of my last ‘Real or surreal?’, I made mention of the household cat and wrote the following comment: ‘Like every other pet I'd ever had in that house, it had died by unseen means.’ My good friend, Wooders, is keen that I explain. So here goes!

Let's set the scene. We're looking at the life of a young lad growing up in the 1960s ... er ... I'm talking about me, who else? Where was I? Oh yes, growing up in the 1960s! Wonderful time, great days, full of a real sense of creative talent going on, not just in comics, but also in film and television.

In the midst of all this, like most kids I had my share of pets, with the odd dog (and if you'd have seen them, you'd have called them odd!), but mainly cats. Now, the general idea is that when you purchase a pet, you like to think that it's going to live with you for quite a number of years, but sadly this wasn't the case.

During a period of a few years, without fail, each and every animal never died of natural causes. Troubled by this, but not as much as the cats were, I decided to present to my mother the various important questions that were forming in my young mind, questions such as: ‘Why has Tiddles kicked the bucket?’ (Hmm, bet Tiddles wanted the answer to that one as well!)

This is where we finally get to the much awaited spooky bit. Going back many years before, when Mum was just a youngster herself, a very mean and nasty piece of work once lived in the area, by the name of Mr Topee, better known as ol' Topee to all the local kids. The said character had a real hatred of animals, more so cats and dogs.

Why? Good question. I mean, I could understand it had it been that damn dog that once bit me on the rear whilst I ran for my life. (I have to confess that I was that six-year-old boy who had fired his best super-duper water pistol at its mush!) Anyway, back to ol' Topee.

It happened this way: late one afternoon, my mum and a few other children had noticed him wandering down one of the back streets, staggering under the weight of the large sack that rested over his shoulders. But it was the sight of Topee returning from the darkened back street without the mentioned sack that brought a chill to the young onlookers.

Having waited until he was clearly out of sight, they rushed tightly together, each footstep almost walking in time with the others. The late afternoon sun didn't seem to cast its kind rays on that part of the darkened street corner. As they approached the outline of the abandoned sack, they held each other in an attempt to feel like one complete force.

Mum couldn't remember just who had made the original move, but it was the slight nudge of someone's shoe that made the sack fall over. Having remained still for what seemed like for ever, with a great sense of daring they untied the old piece of string that held the top together. At this point it revealed its terrible secret: the cold, still features of what was once a handsome German shepherd resting silently on the stone floor. Sadly, this wasn't the first and certainly not the last time that animals were to be poisoned by the hand of Mr Topee.

Phew! Okay, let's get back to the '60s. Having discovered the tale of Topee, I followed it up with my next question to Mum: ‘What's that got to do with us right now?’ I honestly didn't want the answer.

It appeared that Mr Topee died at home whilst seated in his old rocking chair. This wasn't long before his house went up for sale, and it was soon to be purchased by my gran. In short, Topee had parted this life in our home … my home! It wasn't the perfect answer, but could this be the reason why my pets died, never enjoying a full and long life in Topee's house?

That evening, I recall taking myself off to bed, feeling that something of that horrible old man remained in its structure. Just before falling asleep, it was time for one final question, the one I really shouldn't have asked: ‘Mum, you know the rocking chair that ol' Topee died in. Whatever happened to it?’

‘Oh, that? That's the one that sits in the far side of the cellar. Sleep well, son!’