The Hairy Muse woke me up early one morning a week ago. The cat had dislocated her shoulder; he was going to have to take her into hospital. I went downstairs to have look and it was true. Ye Gods, she had managed to completely rotate her foreleg around in its socket. Crazy beast was still trying to walk on it, too.
She’d been getting increasingly feeble – if you’re a cat owner, you know the signs – drinking water almost constantly, not really bothering with food. I knew her time was up. She’d reached the grand old age of 19. Etc etc.
But still. The Hairy Muse and I were bereft!
I can’t get used to the freedom. On the way home, I still catch myself thinking “Right, just time to get back to feed the – Doh!”
I don’t really believe in Heaven at all, but I’m making an exception. Animals are the true innocents, I think, and I have decided, that while her earthly remains went up in smoke some time ago, the moggy resides in bliss amid her tuna-breath friends on clouds of catnip.