It's been over a month since our best furry friend was put to sleep. I'd just like to share with people who will understand.
We got him from a rescue centre when he was 3 years old, and oh, he was a state. Covered in bald spots from the flea and tick infestations he'd had when he was found wandering the streets. His little leg all naked from the nasty infection he'd had. We fell in love.
Back home, he took some work to get him out from under the chair where he hid for the first three days, coming out to use the tray and eat.
Once we built his trust, he showed himself to be a real lap-lover. He would go from me to my husband and back, lie in my arms on his back like a baby. He ate like there was no guarantee of food tomorrow, because for him, there hadn't been.
Over time his fur grew back and his character grew with it. Soon, he was Lord of all he surveyed, but still up for a cuddle - on his terms, naturally. Menopausal hot flushes were endured with a hot lump of fur on my knee.
At the end, he had an incurable cancer. We opted not to put him through chemo as he'd have only gained maybe another six months from it and the vet said he'd have to go to a town and hour's journey away for treatment. He loathed being in his basket. At 15, we couldn't put him through it since it wouldn't be a cure, though I have agonised about that decision.
With painkillers, he was just as he'd always been, lively, still loving laps, still charging up the stairs and leaping on the bed. We vowed we wouldn't let him suffer, but resolved to give him the best life he could have for whatever time he had left. We didn't ask how long that might be.
He had his favourite treat (tuna) every day, sprinkled on his normal food. We let him sit in state on a cushion on the dining room table.
Then he went downhill. When he wouldn't come thundering down the stairs at the sound of a tuna tin opening, we knew his time was running out. Though the tumour on his face wasn't noticeably bigger, he started sneezing blood.
We took him to the vets on last time. The night before, I know he knew. He was on my knee for a good hour, then moved to the arm of the settee by my husband. He didn't leave us, normally he'd disappear off upstairs.
I know we did the right thing, but I am still haunted by the memory of him at the vets, and how I wanted to pick him up, take him home, say it was a mistake.
I miss him every day. His ashes are buried in his favourite corner of the garden. His food bowls are still in the kitchen, on his little mat, with tea lights in because we couldn't bear to see them empty.
He was so loved. I hope he knew. He brought us so much happiness, even though he could be a right royal PITA.