The Two Deaths of Hermitage

William removed his spectacles and tossed them on the bureau. Wire rimmed but weighty due to their thick lenses, they left two shallow craters on the bridge of his nose.
‘Come along, Hermitage,’ he called as he rose from his chair, dipped his toes into his tatty old mule slippers and headed for the kitchen. When he reached the open doorway to his cellar, William paused briefly and peered into the dark. He sighed and stroked his wedding ring. The cellar door was left open intentionally - his way of feeling closer to Ursula.
The rooms throughout the house were gloomy. Exposed wooden floors had long lost their shine, washed-out gridded windows were hidden behind piles of books, old newspapers and dusty trinkets. The heavy curtains and worn rugs scattered here and there had greyed with William over the years. Every room had the stale scent of cigarette smoke. The building was decayed, but beautiful.
Hermitage remained still as William disappeared from view. The American Curl, as white as milk, was troubled. She found the resolve, just seconds later, and shuffled down from her spot on the bookshelf, then skulked over to the kitchen - a reluctant march to the beat of her own drum. There stood William, fumbling with the clutter that littered every surface. He reached across the counter for an open tin, held it about a centimetre in front of his eyes, then flipped it upside down and shook it ferociously. He did not bend or crouch. On the floor below, beside an exposed big toe, was a bowl decorated with the remnants of a previous meal. Chunks of tuna fell, some wildly off-target, while others rather fortuitously landed as intended. The shaking continued until just a slither of jelly was dangling from the rim of the tin, which was then reunited with the surface clutter.
Hermitage, who had both an appetite and standards, was distraught. She looked longingly at the kitchen’s stable door and the slab of plywood that covered what was once a cat-flap. A now forbidden gateway to the finer things in life. William and Ursula had taken the decision to keep Hermitage indoors after she strayed into several properties and made herself extremely comfortable. One time she was gone for days, switching between neighbours. To her it felt like months - until a young couple brought her back.
As Hermitage’s gaze returned to the bowl, she reluctantly lowered her head. She knew there was no use trying to express dissatisfaction - numerous efforts had hitherto been ignored.
Nothing had changed since Ursula’s tragic and fatal accident some weeks earlier, which had left William a widower. Hermitage understood it was not a new maître d'hôtel that was needed, but a new home.
She ate the tuna slop and made her way to the entrance of the cellar, where she regurgitated a sizeable puddle of jellied slime.