A Little Tribute

We've just returned from the vet after having Keith, our moustachio'd cat put to sleep. We don't say put to death because euphemisms are much easier to digest. I guess they're like putting curved edges on angles, cushions on pin-points.
He's been part of our family for about 11 years now, wandering in and out of our life through the cat door (when there was one) or knocking on the door with muddied paws, munching his way through interestingly named foods which would be palatable to the human by name but definitely not by smell.

My two boys, one bigger than the other, are both in tears. It's their first real death. We all loved Keith, and it's the first time 'something' the boys have actually loved has been permanently lost. He cannot be repurchased or recycled, he's popped his paws and that is it. No happy ending.

As we clustered around our small ginger pet to say goodbye, we'd, to that point, assumed he'd be given a tablet and the offer of a day or two of rest - then he'd be home again traumatising the birds. The boys left the room (on their own wishes) and I held Keith as life left him on the sterile, stainless table. I could hear the boys in the waiting room and I can't remember hearing them sob so, gut wrenching sorrow. I wasn't much help, as I was wracked by guilt for not realising he'd been so ill.

Keith seemed to have settled well into our new home. His first morning, only a week ago, saw him enjoying the novelty of new cat doors. He no longer had to beg on the welcome mat - he woke me at 6.30am by whacking me on the eyelid with his paw. He was always keen to eat. If we could be as honest with our own appetites.

We chose him from behind a wire cage at the SPCA and little did we know that we'd acquired a cat in the full throes of cat flu. But he survived. He travelled from our address in Auckland, flying with us to Christchurch then back to Auckland. He rattled bowls in Beach Haven and made his name in the Point. He dined at several addresses, at least three, but we suspected there were a few more.

Stella, my neice, called him the 'kissing-hissing cat'. But to be fair on our ginger pet he very rarely scratched, and even tonight as he fought getting into his cage, he didn't try to scratch or bite. He never did. He chose when he would offer affection, it was always his perogative and a delight when it was offered. Lucy, a beloved bearded collie, was his favourite sport.

But now he's gone.

Sleep isn't looking very promising tonight.