Letting Go

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This here is my cat.

My baby.

My best friend.

My partner in crime.

The little brother I never had.

He’s 16 this year, and looking a little worse for wear.

I never really thought that I would have to let go of him. I really just expected him to live endlessly. Just sort of there. A part of the house. A part of me. Forever. He’s always been around, lingering at the back door for food, hogging my bed, or my pillow, or my chair, or my sweatshirts, or my bean bags, or my dinner. Where ever I went he was sure to be hot on my heals, or in my bag, or around my neck. Six year olds didn’t really understand that cats weren’t toys, as far as I was concerned I was completely justified to strap him into a back pack and carry him round the house all day.

But today we made the call. And on Thursday we’ll be saying farewell.

It wasn’t an easy decision.

It’s funny though, the effect an animal can have on your life. I used to find it odd that kids at school would cry when the family dog died. And now here I am crying over my keyboard at the thought of never seeing him again.

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Yesterday was the day.

I was going to write a new post but somehow that hurts more.

I got up early and sat out the front with him as the sun rose. He was curled up in my arms, barely breathing, a boy who was once so huge and majestic with a killer voice to boot was all bones and fur and quite purrs.

I planned to stay strong and not cry in front of him.

Silly really.

But deep down I always knew he knew my moods all too well.

It was heart breakingly beautiful.

He was with me through some of my darkest days, and I refused to leave him on his.

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