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.