She was 16. We've had her since she was 6 weeks old.
We called her Socks because when she was a kitten, she was predominantly grey but with 2 Guinness Creamy front paws. It looked like she was wearing Socks and her ears perked up whenever we said that word (socks).
So Socks it was.
We rescued her from an amateur breeder. The poor thing was underweight, scrawny and covered in fleas. My wife picked her up and held her against her chest. No question, she was coming home.
We hadn't expected to collect a cat that day, we had no carrier or even a box. So she sat on my wife's lap the entire 60 minute drive home. She was no fuss. Through my now, bleary and tear-strained eyes my memory makes me think she knew she was safe with us.
The second we walked through the front door and introduced her to her new home, she walked behind the sofa and let out the biggest pooh I've ever seen from a cat, let alone a kitten. She'd marked her territory. She was home.
For the next 16 years she's been our constant house companion. She was mostly an inside cat. She loved sun-bathing, tuna and chin rubs.
But she was no push over. While she was certainly affectionate, she'd still let out a quick paw swipe if you crossed the line. She hated me trying to stroke her back paws. So much so I invested a game "back-paw swipey", the premise was simple, how many times could I stroke a back paw until she got me.
She always won.
Typing it down makes me realise perhaps playing that was a but cruel. And at the bargaining stage of grief, I'd give anything to play that with her again. But no matter how pissed off she was at me, she'd always let me stroke her chin and let me know we're still friends.
She was a great cat. With a stunted little tail and stumpy little legs. But oh so vocal. Oh so pretty. Oh so affectionate.
