Ruffles
Ruffles (or Westland Shadow Prince, according to his pedigree papers) was my Christmas present when I was 15 years old. I begged and pleaded and used crocodile tears on my parents for months as only a teenage girl could, and finally, success.
Now, 19 and a half years on, it's time to say goodbye tomorrow.
Ruffles has an aggressive tumour in his jaw that only reared its head in the last couple of months and only this weekend revealed itself for what it actually was. Today, for the first time ever, he went off his food and we decided it was time to say goodbye.
We have an appointment booked with his lovely vet, Murray, tomorrow at 12.30 to say goodbye. Murray has been his vet since he first became part of our family, and I know he will be as sad as us tomorrow when it's time.
Two furry dearhearts in less than six months is a bit much to bear, but them's the breaks, I guess. If I use a humorous yet slightly bad taste icon on this post, it'll all be okay. Really.
While 19 and a half is a fab age for a cat in anyone's book, it's hard to imagine life without Ruffles after more than half my lifetime with him. Tears in his fur over boyfriends, giggles with girlfriends playing with him at sleepovers, a thousand happy playtimes and endless purry smooches. I'll miss him every day.