Continuing the sporadic subject of cats, Offspring and I used to read quite a few books about Mog over the years, but by no means all of them. Judith Kerr has written at least a dozen Mog stories, but Christmas six years ago I knew I just had to have the last Mog book, so did that uncharacteristic thing and bought a picture book for myself.
In the days just before Christmas the Oxford cousins landed here on their journey to Scotland, so we had four children in the house. And four adults. Rational adults. The children didn’t pay too much attention to the book at that time. I suppose they were busy socialising.
The adults socialised too, but it didn’t stop every one of us from sitting down to read about Mog’s last moments. I’d been afraid that it would be a very upsetting book, but although you are crying by page two, as Judith kills off her famous cat on the first page, it’s more of an uplifting story. It deals with death in a nice way, whether the dead loved one is a pet or a human.
And Mog may be dead, but still manages to get up to a lot in the book. Clever Mog, I say. It’s not all picture books that can manage the feat of having adults grab it, as though they simply have to read it. Now.