Solly

Its a cold bright day. My fingers are cold, only just put the heater on in the attic, haven’t been up here for ages.
Spent most of my time in front of logs fires, which Jim has lovingly laid.
Tuesday night my doctor called at 7.00 p.m. Anybody that says the NHS are lazy should visit my surgery. They start at 8.00 and finish God knows when.
So there I was lying on my bean bag, flanked by two hot water bottles, when the phone rung. The scan is all clear, theres a bit of this and a bit of that, what you would expect for a woman of my age, but in the main its very encouraging. However, the pain is still rampant so I’ll be referred to a specialist that will hopefully identify the problem.
I’m no longer living under a shroud of fear.
But our world was turned upside down.
Last week little Solly was taken to the vet. He was the runt of the litter, he was silly, funny, fluffy and endearing. He was rescued by us from the dawter and her errant friend who, on a hangover whim, decided to spend more money than sense buying him from a shyster in Hackney.
Solly came to live with us. He was nurtured, fussed over, fed, watered and generally spoiled to within an inch of his overgrown coat. We loved him.
The Hackney shyster sold a dud. For however beautiful Solly was – and he was – Solly had a faulty heart. From the moment we got him his breathing was shallow. We, as you do, ignored it, burying our heads in the dunes.
Last week we took him to the vet, he had 220mls of fluid drained from his chest. Two shaved patches on his lovely fur, and a four different drugs that had to be administered.
In one week I learnt how to roll the meds in bits of smoked ham. He gobbled it up with relish, including the bitter pills.
Yesterday, at 11.15 we took Solly back to the vet. The pills were the highest dosage they could give, but still the fluid was building up. So at 11.25 our dear little cat was laid out, on his blue and white towel, and given a lethal injection.
Too short a life, too short. Jim cried, I cried. The vet cried with us.
The cottage feels empty. The Guernsey sweater he slept on, in the wash, his bed, and toys removed. His eating dishes put away.
And the attic, where he nibbled my work boards and played with my pens, where he opened the box of cat biscuits, littering them over the carpet, my room where he tore chunks out of my chairs and climbed into the plant pots, feels lonely and cold.
Of course it will pass, but in the middle of my aching distress we’ve lost a delightful little life. A mischievous ball of warmth.
King Solomon Bywater you will be sadly missed.