Tuesday was horrific. I opened the bedroom curtains and saw Chas-the lovely old, affectionate cat from next door-lying in the middle of the road. And not moving. And very upsettingly dead.
So I grabbed a towel and went out to rescue her. It was awful; particularly the sensation of sagging, dead-weight when she’d been a lovely, delicate, feather-light petal of a thing beforehand. But I wrapped her up and gave her a cuddle and a nice woman stopped her car and came to check I was ok. And I didn’t cry.
Until I got inside. And then I wailed and keened, and if I’d known how to ululate, I would have done.
Unfortunately, the neighbours had both headed off to work already so I had to leave her in the house all day. Pete got the fun of breaking the news to them in the evening and making a pregnant woman cry. Apparently there was some rather undignified movement of the body involving boxes and rigor-mortis. I’m rather glad I wasn’t there to see it.
Chas was adorable. She was old and arthritic, and when she jumped off things that were a bit too high she’d limp a bit afterwards and look like she was muttering to herself. She slept under Philip a lot and had oily ears because of it. When you tickled her belly she’d do a forward roll onto her back, and she dribbled when she was particularly happy. She looked like big-eyed Puss n Boots from Shrek and we’ll miss her very, very much.