Britain Mourns Her Mouser in Chief.

Typically I avoid political topics, but today I feel it's my duty to honour the passing of one of Britain’s most esteemed politicians: Mouser in Chief Humphrey. It was confirmed March 20th 2006 that the eighteen-year-old moggy had recently passed away. His regrettable demise was likely the result of age-related health complications. He may have been but one in a long, respectable line of royal mousers (said to extend back as far as Henry VIII,) but he was without doubt the most memorable.

Beginning his tenure at No. 10 Downing Street in late 1989, Humphrey maintained an active, cost-effective role in the civil service. Under the premierships of Margaret Thatcher, John Major, and Tony Blair he protected the elite from the unhygienic and unwelcome presence of various vermin. Within his dossier(which is reportedly an impressive one and a half inches thick) a 1992 memo released by the accommodation officer at 70 Whitehall, describes Humphrey's eating habits as “little and often”, and to further delineate the sensibility of his station, his salary was estimated at ₤100 annually as opposed to the ₤4,000 required to employ an human to oversee pest control. It was also noted that, unlike Humphrey, the human had never caught a mouse.

In 1993 Humphrey remained the model of civil servitude. He was described as having “no criminal record” and having not been involved in any “sex or drugs scandals”. Even though he had been diagnosed with a minor kidney disorder, its cause was believed to be dietary and not due to any form of vice. As with any public figure, however, the press will inevitably attempt to tarnish an otherwise exemplary reputation; the Mouser in Chief was not immune, and in 1994 Humphrey was accused of savaging a nest of baby robins who had settled in a window box outside the office of then Prime Minister John Major. The accusations were denied on the official level, being branded “libellous” and “completely unfounded”. Whether or not anyone bought the denial is open to debate. Nevertheless, given some of the charges levied against his fellow politicians, I doubt savaging a nest of baby robins had his back overly bristled. In fact, were I him, I’d have been more offended by the official defence than by the press accusations. (Imagine someone publicly declaring you unfit to catch “roast duck with orange sauce, presented on a plate.”)

The 1994 accusations blew over, and in 1995 Humphrey decided he needed a holiday. In typical feline fashion, he wandered off leaving his humans wondering where he’d gone. After three months away from Downing Street, he was forced to return in order to quell disturbing and erroneous reports of his death. Acting on advice from representatives at Whitehall, he issued a short statement to the press: “I have had a wonderful holiday at the Royal Army Medical College, but it is nice to be back and I am looking forward to the new parliamentary session.” This statement alone proved that, like any good politician, Humphrey could lie with the best of them.

After combating kidney troubles, suffering a restricted diet, weathering press attacks, and being forced back from holiday prematurely, Humphrey grew tired. Some say that his kidney disorder returned, others fault Cherie Blair’s allergic or fastidious disposition, and still others blame the Labour Party in general, but regardless of any particular causal factor, November 1997 saw the retirement of Humphrey, the Mouser in Chief. Unfortunately even this action came under scrutiny, and he was forced to hold a final, though private, media conference in order to quash the storm of speculation that stemmed from his controversial Downing Street exodus. He had lived his days in a quiet undisclosed location, out of the public eye, until his death earlier this week. Undoubtedly, Britain mourns the loss of this majestic moggy.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)