I’m down to one cat now, and I think Sharky knows it. He seemed to know last night while I was confident Fusspot would come home after a spell on the drip. I washed all the cat bedding yesterday, thinking it would be nice to have it fresh and springy for Fusspot’s return, but Sharky’s been sticking close, and sleeping between hugs.
Fusspot stopped eating and drinking but didn’t get feverish – he was still strong, moving around and jumping up on things, and had a cry to scare the crows out of the trees. But he was dehydrated and not picking up again. Vet says he fitted last night – nothing they could do, though they tried.
I’ve just been working out that there were exactly 11 months between him and Thor – both births and deaths. They were half-brothers. Maybe it was meant to be. I’m glad in a way that it didn’t happen here, because I already went through all that with Thor, and it’s a horrific experience when it happens to you and it’s night and you’re alone in the house, wondering if maybe there was something you could have done to save the cat’s life. This time he was at the vet getting instant emergency treatment, and he had the best chance – and there was still nothing to be done.
But it’s alright. I told Sharky he won’t be an ‘only cat’ for long, if you’ll excuse the expression. Soon he’ll be moving in with Mum’s three bouncy tiggers. He’s a bit of a shoulder cat – thinks the best place for a large cat is draped round your neck. I was making tea just now with him purring in my ear, and suddenly he caught at my fingers and gave them a comforting squeeze.
It’s probably better that Fusspot wasn’t put through the stress of the house move and all those strange new cats. Sharky’s still young and strong – he’ll let them know who’s boss.
There’s no point sitting around brooding, so I’ll head up into the loft to bring down some things, then empty the low bookshelf that’s on the desk. The sooner we complete this move, the better.