I think I really knew when I was kissing his little furry nose on Saturday morning before dashing out in the snow for the train to York that Peter did not have long to live.

I tried to squash down the feeling that he might not last until I got home on the Monday night.

He hung on all the weekend, and even went out for a few hours at one point, but despite Andrew giving him his medication and giving him plenty of water, he stopped eating on Sunday, and apart from some water on Monday morning he refused food.

When I got back on Monday tea time I knew it was time to take him to the vets for the last time.

We’d given him a few weeks to try and cope with his poorly functioning kidneys, and it was obvious that they just did not work enough to keep him well.

I wrapped him in the blanket he’d like to sleep on over the past few weeks, and put him in the basket.  He had plenty of kisses and whispered love and gentle strokes.  We let him and his brother Edmund snuggle and then we went.

He was purring when we got to the vets and we just opened his basket and snuggled with him and kissed him, and when the time came the vet and nurse were incredibly gentle and lovely.  Peter just slipped away and I was kissing and snuggling him and he just went to sleep.

He’s now joined Kira and little Noah in the back of the garden.

I’ve not been able to touch clay this week, I’ve barely knitted, mourning takes it’s time.

Even with three cats still in the house hold, it feels like the house is empty.  Peter is so missed.



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