It come to me that I should write my will.

My late uncle told me many winters past that we cats do not have such wills.

I believed him.  When I was young I thought that there was little he did not know.  But he did not know his letters.

So now I think he spake of common cats.  Not an Earl’s cat and poet.    

I stepped out to seek advice from Linkin our law cat.  A long walk on a dull day, but the chill air bore sweet tastes of spring.

Then, after I had rested and warmed myself, I writ as follows.

I, Gib alias Bevis of this household, being weak in body but of perfect memory for which I offer thanks, do make this my last Will and Testament in manner and form following. Viz.

First I commend my soul unto the Queen Cat of Heaven and my body unto I care not where, save it were great pitie if it be cast upon the dunghill or cut up for eel bait.

Item:  I bequeath unto my loving niece the pens I have put by.  And all my little books wherein I have writ the true relation of my life, my tales, my sonnets, and my play.  And my basket with the cushion thereunto appertaining.

Item:  I bequeath unto my fellow poet Nero alias Blackie Sea-Cat a swan’s quill to remember me.  He cannot write, so it need not be a cut one.

Item:  I bequeath unto the Right Honourable my Lord of Southampton all the ribands, ear-strings and jewels I have took from his chamber and hid in divers places.

My aforesayt niece is to see all is done as I have writ.

And she is to give unto Linkin Law-Cat for his fee a rat of her own killing that he may offer his mistress and win prayse thereby.

Writ this day by me, Gib.

Witness hereof:  Our Kitchen Cat her mark.

I gave the paper to my niece and arrkst her to make a fair copie while I rested.

“Willingly,” sayt she.

I believe I have been a good cat, though when I was a kitling I was much given to impudencie and worse.

I tormented my little lord (before he was an Earl).  I hid myself beneath his bed and leapt out to grip him by the ankle with my sharp claws as he clamb in.  I made him yowl, and took joy in it.

And when I lay abed with him I would prick mine ears and show my head against the light from our window.  He (seeing little by night, as I well knew) feared a horned devil had come from hell to carry off his soul.  He was too affrighted to yowl.  He could scarce draw breath.

But I know he has forgiven me.

This morning he sent for a dish of water, and set it down beside me with his own hands.

I took a drink, but I have not broke my fast.

I was birthed in the old Earl’s stable about this time of year.  I should like to take the sounds and scents of a stable again.  And to think upon my dear sister, and my friend Smokie who had employment in a shop where horses are shod.

My niece, scrit-scratching with her pen, sayt that walking out would make my joynts to ake.  I would do better to bide here in my basket by the fire.  And that when the stable cats saw me they were like to beg a tale.

I told her that they could have one, but it will be short.

They are good cats, and always most respective.

When I say I wish to be private, they will not trouble me.

---

This is the last piece of writing Gib did.  He had probably reached the age of 18, remarkable for his time.

If Gib’s niece also made an inventory of his belongings to accompany the fair copy of his will, it hasn’t survived.  A pity, because an inventory might have given the number of his literary works.  There were almost certainly more than I’ve seen.