We woke to an incredibly sad day Sunday. Lily, one of our most precious of cats had died in the night at the age of seventeen.
She was boney and deaf due to old age, but still had the most willing of purrs. You only had to smile at her to set her off.
Outwardly I may seem fine, but I still have that lump of sadness within me. I'm still teary, but keep looking back at what a wonderful cat she was.
Lily had come to us a sickly and feral kitten. A week after we had got her my Dad died suddenly. She helped me through it. My focus went on her. The vet was doubtful she would make it. She was riddled with cat flu and ear mites. I remember studying her nose one day and discovering it was actually pink not black. It was covered in solid dirt.
When she was younger she would cuddle up in bed with you, head on the pillow beside you purring. She would sleep in the bed just like us humans, head and front paws on the pillow with the rest of her down under the covers. She even got to know the word 'bedtime' and would dash upstairs ahead of anyone who was retiring for the night. She also knew the word 'birdies' and would fly to the window to watch the birds devouring what had been put out for them.
I'm biased I know, but she was so very special.
There's a light on her grave the comes on when it gets dark. I like to look out and know she's there sleeping.
Farewell Lily my lovely, I'll always miss you.