For the past seven years I've been living in fear. What feels like many moons ago the Wife and I decided to get a cat. More accurately, I came home one day and discovered we had a cat. His name was Boris, and he was kind of an arsehole.
Boris was made famous in this blog for being the recipient of a endoscopy conducted by an 18 month old Girl and a spoon. Yet strangely he was always very fond of the Girl. It's possible he had a prostate issue.
The Girl has always been mad on animals, and in particular cats. Most of her life she has been adorned in cat merchandise. T shirts, trousers, underwear, flip flops, umbrellas, you name it. So, our biggest fear was what would happen when he finally bowed out. That thought has given me the odd sleepless night over the years.
Then, three weeks ago we found out the cat had stomach cancer.
Breaking bad news to a child is always difficult, and doubly so to a small Girl who can, at the age of nine, kill a man with her thumbs. Naturally the Girl was distraught, as was the Boy, and the pair of them dissolved into the consistency of a damp hanky.
They always surprise you, kids. And they bounced back quite quickly. Especially as, since Boris wasn't in pain, we decided to keep looking after him until it was clear it was the end. In fact the Girl recovered so well that when we bumped into some friends the next day she replied to their cheery Hey, guys! with an equally cheery
My cat's got cancer!
For the record, this doesn't work well as an ice breaker.
Three weeks went past in the blink of an eye, as they do when your kids are around ten. We went camping whilst Boris stayed with friends, we drove around Suffolk, we got home and unpacked. The Girl told us she's written graffiti in the dirty on the van
Oh, goodo. What does it say?
I wrote the mummy loves the builder.
(We're having some building work done)
Oh yeah? Which one?
Dick.
Dick?
Yes.
So... What you wrote on the back of the van, that we've been driving all round Suffolk in for the past three days, was...
Mummy loves dick.
In short, normal service was resumed.
Today Boris took a turn for the worse, and clearly it was time to do the right thing. So, this evening he went to the great cattery in the sky. Boris the mighty, the cat that shat on my pillow, the cat that got shot off a fence with a champagne cork, the cat that had a spoon up his arse, moved on to the next adventure.
Goodbye, you big silly bastard. We'll miss you.
