cybermule | What's in the trunk? Striped cat

I still twitch and tear up at the songs I used to rewrite to honour my wonderful kitty. It still crushes me that she's not here.

We've decided to go and bring her home from the vet tomorrow, with her ridiculous oversized basket that my ex bought for her. I've asked him to take care of that for a bit, and we will work out what to do with her ashes. In the garden, in her favourite spot. But my therapist suggested jewellery or something too, and I like that. I want to keep Ziggy close in some way. She was some epic talisman in my life.

When we were talking about the basket and that last trip, I remembered taking her to the vet back around Easter when things started going downhill, although we didn't know it. She had a bum abcess that needed checking, and my car had broken down so we put her in her crate and carried her. It's only a short walk.

At the time it reminded me of a book I was reading - the Travelling Cat Chronicles, about a man taking his cat places. I won't spoil the plot, but it was poignant. When she started getting really ill, I wondered about putting her in her basket and taking her to see the river at the end of the road. But it never happened.

That time back in April, things seemed ok anyway. And she loved the walk to the vets - peering out of the slats with interest and enthusiasm for all the weird noises and smells of a busy street. She'd probably never seen that, and she loved it so much more than going in the car. She'd yell all the way in the car, trapped inside a box inside a box. I can't blame her. I wish I'd walked her there more - I would have if I'd known.

But then I think I probably did know, a little. In my guts. And I got the best of both worlds in those 4.5 months - appreciation, without too much agony.

I wouldn't change it I don't think. But I do cry bitterly when I remember her stood in her basket watching the cars and sniffing the air as her fur ruffled in the breeze.