In the moments before I'm fully awake, I see her little face and hear her calming purr.

For most of her life, Socks would sleep on me. Frequently for entire nights. 

What a gift. To wake up and your little pal is using you as her cushion. To have her there, as my first interaction of the day.

Man this sucks. 

Today my brain kept replaying our final moments in the treatment room. We both knew it was the end, I was rubbing my finger along her chin, she loved that, we'd done it thousands of times. And this time we knew it would be the last.

She rested her head on my hand. Still purring. Blessher. She was awesome.

And in the mornings, instinctively I look down to find her, a habit developed over 16 years together. And she's not there.

I know she's gone. I know she's in a better place. She even told us she's ok. But I still don't want her to be gone.

Finding acceptance is harder than I thought. 

I love you Socks.  I don't know if I ever actually spoke those words to you and boy, does that hurt to realise now, but it's the truth.

This sucks.