If you’re reading this you’ll probably know who Llwyd was, and if you don’t understand attachment to a pet, read no further! This is a rather indulgent and sentimental tribute to my loyal loving companion ❤️❤️❤️

Ten days ago I made the painful decision to have Llwyd euthanised.  She had just turned 17, the equivalent of about 86 human years.  She hadn’t really been herself for the past year since she became deaf and she definitely entered the end of life stage over the past 2 months.  Her coat dulled and she had matted patches of fur at the base of her spine where she couldn’t quite reach to groom herself. She went through phases of excellent health and vitality but a thyroid and kidney condition made her lethargic and prevented her from absorbing nutrients from her specialised food – unable to tell me she was feeling off colour, she deteriorated extremely rapidly, although she usually bounced back just as quickly. 

A couple of months ago I took her back to see the vet – we hadn’t been for about a year as her health was stable with only the occasional bout of sickness which passed quite quickly.  She loved Robert even though she hated visiting the surgery a mere 10 minute drive away which must have felt like a long rough ride on a rollercoaster to her.  I only took her if it was absolutely necessary as I didn’t want to cause her any additional stress.  He prescribed medicine to be administered orally once a day. Llwyd being Llwyd, treating her was an agonising ordeal, often resulting in a disgruntled cat and tears of frustration from me.  I tried several options including pinning her down between my legs and wrapping her in a blanket which stressed us both out!  Another tactic was to wait until she was in a deep sleep, then quickly open her mouth, shove the syringe in and thrust the plunger down, ejecting the foul tasting serum to the back of her throat.  Most of the time this worked but occasionally, it ended up on the sofa as she struggled to escape. She eventually wised up to my ploys and slept at angles that made it awkward to access her mouth.  This meant she wasn’t getting her medicine daily. She started to lose weight and drank copious quantities of water with an unquenchable thirst.

In her final months she became more and more attached to me and she was beside me within minutes of realising I wasn’t in the same room as her anymore. Velcro cat. I feel privileged that I’d earned her trust.

I’ve felt bereft, beside myself with sorrow and grief, inconsolably sad and lonely. I’ve sobbed heart wrenching tears from deep inside. There’s nobody to greet me when I come home or to say good morning to, or Bore Da in our case. Llwyd was 100% Welsh and never really got to grips with the English language. There is a huge void that can’t be filled yet. I know I projected much of my attachment and relationship stuff onto her and maybe that was OK? She didn’t seem to mind me venting my frustrations and innermost feelings out loud to her.

I’m absolutely certain I made the right choice though.

She died on the Sunday. On the Friday I went up to do the Yorkshire 3 Peaks challenge, an event for which I’d been training for months. She was waiting for me in the living room when I got back on Sunday afternoon and I knew straight away she wasn’t herself. She didn’t run towards me, she just stood staring. I greeted her with a loving caress but received no loud meowing or warm purring in return. Looking around, I saw that she’d been ill several times. She laid on her side looking exhausted. A while later she got up and started vomiting again. It was time for a trip to the emergency vet.

I stroked her head to calm her in the car. My excitement at completing the 3 Peaks disappeared.

After checking her over, Tom the empathic young vet discussed the options with me. They could keep her in for 2 days and treat her with lots of medication. A major operation was another choice. Or there was euthanasia. We both agreed the third option was the kindest choice. That’s what I would want for myself, I wouldn’t want to suffer and have a poor quality of life. Tom explained how things would go and I tried to listen while inside I was imploding, combusting, collapsing, melting, panicking about having to say goodbye to her. He took her away to give her the injection. When he brought her back in she laid on the floor, her eyes glazing over. She was going. I held her and spoke to her, trying to reassure her as well as myself that it wouldn’t hurt, how much she was loved and how she would be missed. I didn’t want to keep her in that transitional stage too long and I told Tom we were ready.

I collected her ashes 5 days later. That helped and that night I took the small cardboard tube decorated with a tranquil woodland scene with lush green grass and a carpet of bluebells to my bedroom, and she slept on the chest of drawers beside me. I felt a sense of peace at having her sleep at home for one last night. The following day I knew I had to scatter her ashes. Her remains didn’t belong in a cardboard tube, and now they’re dancing in the wind or swimming in stream water at various points on some of my favourite local walking routes.

I sometimes think I’m going mad. My rational brain knows she’s gone but I hear her. I hear the sound of the catflap door and part of me is momentarily excited, expectant, anticipating her calming reassuring presence. When I do my yoga practice, I feel her next to me showing me exactly how to do a cat stretch. I open a tin of mackerel and part of me expects her to patter towards me optimistically, hopeful for a flake of fishy flesh. And she doesn’t come! I see her through the kitchen window, returning home after checking her territory out. But it isn’t her. I feel her presence all the time. Our old routines will eventually start to take new shape and meaning.

Llwyd was feisty and characterful and not so long ago, she took on cats twice her size and had the upper hand. Paw! I loved watching her chase unwanted felines from her garden. I could hear her paws stomping the ground aggressively as she chased them off her land. On the other hand, she was super friendly with people and would seek out love and affection from complete strangers. A resourceful feline, when I was away for work, she got herself adopted for a couple of nights. She wasn’t interested in the food as much as love and affection. Cats and owners eh?

They say a house isn’t a home without a cat. Well I can vouch for that. Since she died, the house feels hollow, empty, lifeless, quiet, devoid of life and conversation. People have asked if I’ll get another cat. Are you kidding?!! The emotional investment is enormous, not to mention the financials and until I’m earning enough to sustain myself, I’m in no position to offer a safe and comfortable home to a pet.

I miss being woken in the early hours by her standing on my chest, poking my cheek with just the right amount of claw to rouse me from my slumber.

I miss her unconditional love. Her presence was a present.

It’s the end of an era. Llwyd’s soul is indelibly imprinted inside mine. I’m becoming adept at bereavement – death is an inevitable part of life. I feel a bit embarrassed rereading what I’ve written, especially during the pandemic with so much human loss and suffering, but I am a human suffering and a human learning. My grief for Llwyd is valid and is helping me resolve other losses. It’s tough though and her death has dredged up 17 years worth of memories, joys, sorrows and regrets.

I feel apathy towards life more often than I’d like. I know how ungrateful that sounds. I’m also menopausal and my hormones are all over the place. Making any major decisions now wouldn’t be a wise move but I can’t go on like this, feeling shit about my life. Don’t get me wrong, I feel intense gratitude and I truly can see and appreciate the positives, but some of the most important factors leading to a great quality of life are lacking.

So now what? The days get easier and time is healing me as I arrive nearer a sense of acceptance, although there are other darker days when my ego tells me it’s all doom and gloom and woe betide us and better to stay safely tucked up in bed. Helping others and keeping busy helps. Telling people helps too, although nobody welcomes sad news. Other days it feels right to stop, slow down and reflect.

Llwyd was a gift, a beautiful old soul