Gods, this one’s going to be hard.
Trouble was put to sleep on Saturday 31st October, Hallowe’en night. She went out to a day full of hugs and the biggest plate of roast chicken she’d ever had.
I’m writing this on Monday, and I’m still an absolute fucking wreck.
She came to us in December 2007, at that point about 5 months old, having being brought in to the first vet practice Dancing Shoes worked at from the mean streets of Nailsea. She was the first of many cats that Dancing Shoes has rehomed, and remains, in our objective opinion, her best work.
And we couldn’t have asked for a more perfect cat.
She was always vocal, both in her earlier years when she’d announce her entry to a room with a mip-mip-mip, and later when she’d lost a chunk of the range but made up for it in volume, walking up to my chair after a visit to the litter tray and loudly yelling for “FLUSH!”
Watching old videos of her these past couple of days, I’d forgotten she was so high-pitched.
She understood the importance of a balanced diet, going absolutely apeshit for baby spinach or cat grass - though only when it was still growing in the pot, she wanted to hunt live prey.
She was friendly and social to her people, sometimes standoffish and snappish to anyone she didn’t feel comfortable with. Guests to the house might be growled at when attempting pets, but for us, all she did was purr and snuggle harder.
She didn’t have much time for the laser pointer, but loved her bouncy ball and her cuddlefish.
She would climb on my lap when I was fresh out of the shower and clad only in a fluffy dressing gown, nuzzle and suck on my elbow while making biscuits on my arm, purring and drooling.
She would sleep at the foot of my bed, sometimes coming up next to me in the night. The Queen of Spades talked about finding us curled up together, both asleep, my arm around a softly snoring bundle. It was, I am assured, the cutest thing ever.
She loved tuna, and could detect a tin coming out of the cupboard even before it had been opened. She loved roast chicken, and would sit next to the table with the biggest eyes whenever we had it. On December 15th - Cat Day - it became a tradition to roast a chicken and give her probably more than she should really have had.
When we first moved to a place with a garden, she at first regarded it with suspicion, growling whenever she could see either of us outside. But eventually, she ventured out, and soon claimed it as her own. Even up to this last summer, she would sit out there all day surveying her territory, occasionally patrolling, and going absolutely psycho at any other cat who dared show its face.
Actually crying, writing this. I miss her so much.
The end came both fast and slow.
Back when she was 10, she was first diagnosed with kidney issues, and we were told, with luck, she’d have 2 more years. When she finally went, she was 19 years and 3 months to the day. So she’d had, in some sense, a timer over her head for a while, though she kept finding some way to reset it.
But all that said, she was still a 19-year-old cat, and she had, visibly, been going downhill for a while. She was eating less and losing weight - for a couple of weeks I’d been mixing tuna in with her food to make sure she ate it. She was very shaky on her back legs, coming down from the Queen’s bed to have a drink and use the litter tray, but finding going any further a struggle.
(Not that she let that stop her. On the 28th, she struggled downstairs and asked to go into the garden, which of course I let her do despite it being dark because she was the best cat and at that point could have anything she asked for. I sat out there with her for forty-five minutes on the swing seat she loved, fresh out the shower and shivering in the night. Worth it.)
But on the Wednesday we sat in the dark on the swing chair, me stroking her and shivering in my dressing gown, her purring contentedly on my lap, while I thought it might be the last time we sat in that chair, what with winter being around the corner, I didn’t expect her to be gone before the end of the weekend.
Thursday evening, she refused even the tuna-laced food. On Friday, she wouldn’t eat anything apart from dreamies and lick-e-lix. A visit to the vet said there wasn’t much they could do.
So we made the call. It was the right time. By Saturday morning, she wasn’t even interested in the treats. I gave her half a tin of tuna for breakfast and it was ignored completely.
We spent pretty much the whole day sat in the Queen’s bed with Trouble on one of our laps, getting fussed and brushed and told what a beautiful, amazing cat she was.
The Queen bought a chicken, a proper fancy one, and cooked it for dinner. I wasn’t convinced Trouble would be interested even in that, but her face lit up when the plates were brought in, and she munched her way through a huge pile of meat while we waited for Dancing Shoes to come with the good drugs.
She passed away snuggled up in my arms, full of chicken.
It was as good an ending as we could have hoped for. I’m not even sure it was the kidneys which got her. It could just have been old age, time eventually outlasting even her legendary stubbornness.
It got me thinking about endings, and finality. In the garden, I thought it might be the last time that happened. But there were other endings I never noticed. The last time she slept at the foot of my bed, I didn’t know that it was the last time. The last time she curled up in her basket, I didn’t know that was the last time either. Makes me wonder what else I’ve missed, what else I will miss.
There’s a thing people will say whenever someone you love has passed - don’t be sad they’ve gone, be happy you spent the time with them. And that’s dumb, because these things are the same thing, you can’t feel one without the other.
The last 19 years of our lives were so much better because Trouble was there. I have so many happy memories of her. And that’s why I’m sad she’s gone.
Crying again.
Goodnight, Trouble. I miss you. I miss the way you’d sit next to my chair while I worked and wait for me to realise you were more important, and I miss the way you’d reach up and dig your claws into my leg if I took too long about it. I miss the way you’d climb on me at 5 in the morning, purring for breakfast. I miss how you’d demand midnight cuddles. I miss how some cuddles had to be done standing up and how your tail would curl all the way over your back when you got them. I miss how you’d sit on my office window-ledge and disapprove of the street. I miss the way you’d always climb on a lap if one was offered. I miss how you’d sit out with me in the garden on summer mornings while I had coffee, taking the other seat at the table. I miss playing duvet monster. I miss how you’d sit on the nuzzle-shelf. I miss your fuck-off paw when we couldn’t resist nuzzling you when you were bundled. I miss your intense interest in our shoes and feet after we’d come in from a long walk. I miss how you loved getting brushed, drooling like a broken tap and purring loudly enough to be heard on the other side of the room.
I’m always going to miss you. You were the best cat in the world.
Off to her next adventure.
