I had Smokey PTS today. I am heartbroken. All the way home from the vets I wanted to scream “give me my cat back”.

Smokey came to live with me when I was living in London and shortly after my mum died. I had wanted a cat for some time, but given that I visited mum every three weeks it didn’t seem fair to have someone have to come in and feed it while I trotted off.

She came from the RSPCA cat shelter in (I think) Finsbury Park, with all the palaver that entails around being inspected and providing reliable references.

I chose her rather than her sister because Smokey was lively and the sister wasn’t. And because I knew that as a black cat she might struggle more to find a home.

Why now? Smokey had been struggling more and more each day. She had a hard little cough that I didn’t like the sound of. She was struggling to jump onto my bed. Her coat was “staring”, meaning it stood up rather than lying down and being glossy, and, as I became aware on Saturday night, her purr had changed. In fact she didn’t seem to be able to purr properly. Worst of all, she just sat in a corner all day and looked mournful. In short, it was time.

I wish I could believe in things like the “rainbow bridge” but I can’t.

She was the best cat, and I will miss her always.