In 2003, Pedro’s mother Fifi, a street cat from Antibes, had the brilliant (and original) idea of giving birth in the refrigerated fish reserves of Marineland.

Fifi felt proud of herself for this creative solution, because though her kids might get chilly, they would never be hungry. And hunger, she knew from experience, was the worst thing of all by far.

A few weeks later, a Marineland employee, while shovelling semi-frozen cod from the reserves to feed one of the long-suffering dolphins, would discover Fifi and her litter of cats, and organise capture and transport to the Jean-Duflos cat refuge in Antibes. 

Jean Duflos being by far the nicest cat refuge in the region was another sign that the stars were smiling on Fifi.

At the cat refuge, Fifi’s family received checkups and luxury five star healthcare. The doctors admitted surprise at how well nourished they all seemed to be. And one by one, put the cats up for adoption.

The refuge named the smallest kitten Themis, for reasons that only they can ever know.

Now Themis was the runt of the litter. Where his brothers and sisters climbed and jumped and bit, Themis preferred to doze in the sun and even at nine weeks he could appear a little wobbly on his feet. It was precisely this calm unpretentious nature that caught the eye of computer buff Nick Alexander when he turned up at the cat refuge looking for a new companion for his beloved, recently widowed cat Paloma. Where Themis’ sister bit Nick’s finger, and Themis’ brother latched onto his arm as if it was a climbing frame, Themis himself simply rolled and offered his tummy for tickles. Nick knew then that he was the one.

Back home, Paloma was less sure. She’d recently lost the love of her life, a Persian kitten called Pablo, who due to poor treatment by unscrupulous breeders suffered from osteoporosis and had needed to be put down at the age of only six months. 

Paloma, who’d adopted Pablo with a level of passion rarely seen in the cat world, was heartbroken, and way too busy grieving to consider transferring her affections to Themis.

Nick decided to rename Themis “Pedro”, hoping that the name would remind Paloma of her beloved Pablo, but though Themis – now Pedro – followed Paloma around constantly, she simply refused to mother him. This would be the first and only trauma of Pedro’s life.

Nick’s boyfriends came and went (so to speak) and sometimes they stayed for a few months. Paloma and Pedro weren’t fussy, they loved them all, getting used to the comings and goings, and as long as Nick was around – which he always was – they were happy. Yes they preferred it when he was in love, and making them dance with him to when he was crying heartbroken into their fur, but either way, they knew they were needed.

When good times came around the family of three moved from Nice to a house in Grasse with a garden, which they loved, and when the money dried up again, back from Grasse to a tiny flat in Old Nice. Having got used to a house with garden, they didn’t entirely approve. 

Paloma, who had lived on the streets for many years, did her best not to care. As long as she was warm and had food and cuddles, she could be happy. But Pedro, who’d never known hardship, was miserable, and would make a bolt for the door of the apartment any time it opened. He escaped so many times it was a miracle that he was never lost.

At the time, Nick had to travel to Asia regularly for his job, and during one particularly long trip to Hong Kong,Thailand and Australia, Paloma and Pedro were sent to stay with their Auntie Sylvie who had a beautiful house above Villefranche-sur-mer not to mention two cats of her own. Pedro the “cool dude tabby”, could be happy anywhere and get on with any cat on the planet, but Paloma, who during her homeless years had developed a more feisty, competitive personality, could not. She specifically couldn’t bear Sylvie’s female cat Nishty Doy, and eventually deciding erroneously that Nick was never going to return, she chose to run away and return to the streets. Thus, by the time Nick got back from Australia, Paloma, heartbreakingly, had vanished.

Nick returned with Pedro to his flat, but without Paloma things just weren’t the same. Even Pedro, despite Paloma’s rejection, was heartbroken without her presence, and Nick, unable to get used to the idea that Paloma was gone for good, would return daily to Sylvie’s place to hunt and call for her, until one day, many weeks later, by miracle, she reappeared running up to him and head-butting his leg. She’d been living rough for a couple of months by that point and was malnourished with broken teeth and ribs.

After visits to the cat-hospo, Nick and Pedro nursed her back to health, and this time she was so relieved to be back that she finally got over her hatred of Pedro. From that point on Nick often got home from work to find them curled up together. Especially when it was cold!

It was about that time that Nick quit his job and started to write, and both Paloma and Pedro were over the moon about this because it meant he was home all day. Nick installed cushions right and left of his computer monitor and the cats liked to curl up there while he worked, lured by the guarantee of regular unpredictable strokes.

Nick was finding living in Nice in summer harder and harder due to the heat and the massive influx of tourists, and was simultaneously running out of money, so he came up with a plan. He would buy a tiny cabin up in the mountains behind Nice so he could AirbNb his flat out every summer. And once he started looking he quickly found a bargain. Yes, it was a wreck and, yes, also the scene of a double murder (I kid you not), but that was also why it was cheap!

During a month while he scrubbed the bloodstains from the walls (again, I kid you not) and renovated the tiny cabin to make it liveable, he Paloma and Pedro slept in a tent at the top of the garden listening to the wildlife snuffling past the tent. The little family of three had never been cosier or more tightly bonded.

Once the house was finished they all liked living there so much that Nick’s summer stays got longer every year. Nick found that he could write better up there, too, and it was during these years that (between cat stroking duties) that he wrote the 5 x book 50 Reasons series, 13:55 Eastern Standard Time and The Case of The Missing Boyfriend – his first mainstream hit. Incidentally, it was just as well it was a hit, as Nick had entirely run out of money by then and was having to borrow from Auntie Sylvie to pay the electricity bills and even buy cat food.

But the Missing Boyfriend was a hit, and The French House, which followed, a mega hit, so suddenly good times were back. Nick was able to repair the mountain cabin properly, get rid of his old, terrifyingly dangerous car, and buy the cats some top notch nibbles. From time to time he’d give Pedro raw cod, which, because it reminded him of his childhood, always sent him into fits of ecstasy.

It was about then that Nick met future husband Lolo, the first man ever to not run a mile when he saw where Nick actually lived. It was quite shockingly remote up there, after all. 

Soon enough, because everyone in the family agreed that Lolo was so clearly The One, he and his mad orange cat Typhus joined the family on a permanent basis. 

Now Typhus was a strange character – it was often said that he wasn’t that “easy to like”. But once you’d figured him out, like all quirky people, he was more interesting than if he’d just been easy. Eventually Paloma and Pedro got used to Typhus’ quirks to the point where Nick would wake up from his siesta in the hammock to find that he had not one, not two, but three cats sleeping on him.

The years went by. 

Nick wrote more and more novels in the mountains and made enough money to rent proper houses in warmer climes they could stay in during winter.

When Paloma died, at the grand old age of eighteen, everyone missed her so much that they were relieved when Patti and Mangui moved in to fill the void. Typhus, stricken by cancer, eventually died as well, creating a vacancy that would be filled by massive lovable Maine Coon called Gaspard. Pedro, the only original remaining, took it all in his stride. If there was one thing that defined Pedro it was that he was and would always remain the cool dude. Relaxed was his middle name and he never once bit anyone, not even in play, and he never once growled or flashed his claws, even by accident, no matter the level of provocation.

Pedro’s solution to any challenging situation remained to roll over and offer his tummy, and it was a strategy that worked with humans and cats alike.

The only violence that Pedro ever exhibited was to the door-mice that infested Nick’s mountain cabin. These he dispatched (and ate) with shocking efficiency, killing and eating one or two a day, every day, for years, until finally they were all gone. And my god, we loved him for that. If you’ve ever had a dormouse infestation, you’ll understand.

Three years ago the family moved to a bigger house where they could spend the entire year, and Pedro was thrilled to discover it had a sofa in the sun. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand it was the one thing he’d hated about his childhood. He could not bear to be cold.

Old Pedro, I’m sad to announce, died yesterday.

He’d lived to the fine old age of 20 years and ten months which is about 99 in human years. Like all who have the luck of getting to be that old, he’d begun to suffer from an assortment of increasingly severe aches and pains. Towards the end he was also plagued by dementia, and would forget where he was and why he was, and whether he had just eaten or was still hungry. 

When he was lost and bewildered, a tickle on the tummy would reassure him. And when his appetite vanished, some raw fish – no doubt a reminder of his long lost childhood in Marineland – would be enough to get him eating again. 

Pedro had lived in seven difference places, known five of Nick’s boyfriends and spent more than ten years with him and his husband Lolo. He’d lived with five different cats and accompanied Nick during the writing of nineteen novels. But now he was tired and in pain and he did his best to express that he’d had enough. A sad decision had to be taken.

He died in the arms of the man who adopted him more than twenty years ago, and who has loved him, fed him, cherished him ever since, slipping painlessly, still purring, still offering his tummy for tickles, into sleep. If we must leave this mortal coil – and we know that we must – then there’s surely no better way to go. 

He is survived by Nick, Lolo, Mangui, Patti, Gaspard and nineteen novels which couldn’t have been written without him. He will be sorely missed by us all.