All alone with a memory

I had very few pets as a child. We did have a budgerigar one Christmas which - for what seems a quite bizarre reason now - we called Merry. I used to come home from school and talk to Merry who would cock his head and then often his leg in response to my childish banter. We also had a fish called Freddie but he didn't take much notice of me either, or at least only for every 180 of his 360 degrees life.

When we married, my wife had a horse and cat. As children arrived, so did more cats. We've had six in all and two remain. Josh, a beautiful black cat, died this morning. He had a spinal disease and we held him and cuddled him as he fell asleep for the last time. Our daughter was devoted to him and he to her. In her fourteen years on earth she cannot remember a time when Josh didn't lie on her bed, meet her from school or wait patiently, paws under door, until she came out of the bathroom each day (increasingly that was a very long wait).

For me, this morning was my first encounter with death at first hand. I had been close to relatives and friends passing away, as well as the other cats and my wife's horse, but never, for one reason or another, actually there as death replaced life. Of course I see Josh everywhere at the moment: 'nesting' under the tree outside, or curled up in his basket or standing expectantly (hopefully) beside his empty dish. I know that he can now see all of us and will watch over our daughter as intently as ever he did when he was alive. I also know now for certain that life is never so precious as at that point when it is about to be taken away.