2009-09-15 - 1:14 p.m.
On Sunday evening there was a frantic banging on our front door. I assumed it was someone at our house by mistake. Sadly I was wrong.
�You�ve got the grey cat haven�t you?�
I must have been slow. I still hadn�t clocked that anything was wrong.
�She�s been run over�.
I followed his gaze and saw a lifeless shape at the bottom of the road.
I went out, shoeless, and checked her pulse. Nothing, but I did see her abdomen deflate. Her eyes were wide open, bulging, and blood had run from her mouth. I knew she was dead, if she wasn�t she would be soon.
Panic didn�t quite set in, but for a brief moment I decided it wasn�t Bou. It was just the blood on her collar that confused me, changing its colour. I double checked the tag and saw my own poor engraving.
My little girl was dead.
I went back into the house for a large towel and placed her gently on it, wrapped her up and took her to the car. God she was so warm.
V was just about hysterical, which is not the sort of state a pregnant woman should be in. She managed to call the emergency vets and warn them we were on our way.
I lay Bou down on the back seat, it was pretty clear that her bowels had given way. I couldn�t believe she was dead. If she wasn�t I wanted her put down as painlessly as possible as it was clear she was injured beyond repair. Of course I could have made sure she was dead, using a spade like I have done so many times with her little victims, could but couldn�t.
I held myself together until the nurse confirmed she was dead. We took her with us and buried her in the garden.
This is not the first death I have known, and after all she was only a stupid cat, but I have been devastated by her loss. I raised her from a tiny, sickly and cantankerous kitten to be a healthy cantankerous adult cat who was always getting into scrapes. I should have known she�d run out of lives early.
In my minds eye I keep seeing her walk up to me as she used to, fixing me intently with those huge eyes, whiskers forward, making that long croaking �waa� call that was her signature. We used to converse this way; I liked to think she was telling me about her adventures.
This is so bloody stupid, two days later and I still cry about her. I am an adult, I am used to loss and death, well more used than most following my old profession and the loss of so many that were close to me. Why the hell have I been poleaxed by the loss of a cat?
What I need to do is move on, after all there are more important things on the horizon, like fatherhood. Fatherhood to a real human boy.