My dearest little Bobby has passed away.

 

He was only just nine, middle-aged for a cat. He'd been ailing with we-don't-know-what for a couple of months, eating very little but drinking lots of water. The vet did some blood tests but couldn't determine exactly what the trouble was. So, night before last, he was lying on the bedroom floor at the foot of my bed, having lost significant weight and by then not even touching his favourite foods nor the water left beside him. When I went to bed at 12.30 a.m. (having stayed up for the World Cup Football) I checked that he was still breathing, albeit slow and shallow. I woke up a few hours later to find him in the same position, eyes open, though cold and lifeless. Took his poor body to the vet this morning for disposal. (Oh how I hate these times, of which I've seen far too many).

I don't have a photo of him as I now don't have the means to take any, but he was a real dearie, affectionate to me - and especially loved to be combed with a special 'cat-comb' (not one of those plastic 2-inch combs but a purpose-made steel-toothed one with handle), he coming to me half a dozen times a day and rubbing me to say that that was what he wanted.

He was mostly black, with a white breast and white paws - and was very much a home cat, while my now sole surviving pussy, Sloopy (same age), is rather more adventurous, though he too also returns comes home.

Sorry - I know that you other pet owners go through exactly the same trials from time to time, but I've got no one else here to off-load and spill my emotions onto. So, I do apologise for my indulging in details of which so many of you will be already painfully familiar, but if I don't get it off my chest to somebody, somehow, anyhow, I'm going to crack.

Farewell, my dearest lovely boy. Thank you ever so much for giving me your love - and your trust. I do so very ardently hope we will meet up again 'later'. XXXX