Andy Thomson

July 28, 2023

SOmewhere between bargaining and acceptance

It's 2 days since Socks passed.

Our gorgeous little cat, died at 14:13pm on 26th July. She was old and her little heart just couldn't pump enough anymore.

She went peacefully. And was surrounded by the 4 people that knew and loved her the most. Her family.

From the moment we got her, as an under-nourished 6 week old kitten, she just fitted in. She instantly recognised she now had a Mum, a Dad and a little baby brother. She slept on our bed her first night home she had found her family.

Over her 16 years, our family has got bigger, we've moved house, we've changed jobs, but she was always the anchor. Home was always where Socks was.

She was an inside cat by choice. She had her bed but she always chose where she wanted to sleep, a different sofa, an office chair, a window ledge, the kitchen table. If it was 2am and she wanted a cuddle, she'd scratch on the door, greet you with a chirp then lie on your chest and keep you awake with the loudest ever purr.

Was it annoying? It was 2am, of course it was.

Would I change it? Not for anything.

Pouring through the thousands of photos of her, she's present at every birthday and Christmas. Every single one. I don't know if it was the family gathering, or the noise of wrapping paper but she knew the signs and would come sit with us.

We'd scrunch the paper into little balls and throw them for her to chase.

And she LOVED to sit in all the boxes. She loved boxes and turned as many as she could into makeshift beds.

In her final weeks, her breathing became more laboured and she wasn't as mobile. But that didn't stop her from trying to join our most recent birthday gathering, last Tuesday.

The house feels so empty without her. But she's ok now. She's not in pain. She found a way to tell us.

On a tear filled walk in the front field, my wife and I saw the brightest ever rainbow.

"She's on her way" I said.

My wife and I stood there, holding hands, crying, looking at the rainbow.

"Look, she made it" my wife said, as we watched the base of the rainbow slowly retreat into the clouds. She'd made her final journey.

Thank you Socks. You made our lives more special than you'll ever know. You were so loved and we felt so loved by you.

We're crushed that you've had to leave us but feel so grateful that we had you. I hope you've found a comfy sofa, a special box and the biggest ever can of tuna.

We will never forget you.

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