Nearly 14 years ago, my flatmate’s cat got herself knocked up by the neighbourhood stray tom and presented us with a couple of ginger fluffballs. I begged one of them, and Wormwood (named from The Screwtape Letters) followed me around through student accom and a nanny post, and was part of the deal when Neil took me in 12 years ago.

I was the good guy, letting him sleep on our bed until Neil came in and turfed him off late at night, but he could always wrap his ‘dad’ around his little finger anyway - on many occasions convincing Neil that he hadn’t been fed for a month, even when I was barely out the door having ducked home especially to open a tin.

worm

Worm had a silly habit of getting shut inside things - his curious instincts making him dash into cupboards and boxes and leading him to spend many long days shut in the garage when I didn’t know he’d gone in as I was on my way to work. He didn’t play, but he was a highly sociable cat who loved visitors and would curl up on anyone’s lap, purring like a lawnmower.

It was with deep regret that I left Wormwood to live with my brother when we moved to London, and it devastated me yesterday to hear that he has finally succumbed to his ripe old years. He had developed multiple tumours in his lungs which, while not causing pain, interfered so much with his breathing that he was in great distress by this week and had to be put to sleep.

Worm, I’m glad I got to see you at Easter, and have you sleep on my bed for the last time. I miss you terribly and I hope you’re happily chasing possums somewhere sunny.

xxx

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P.S. I’ve turned off the comments - I can’t cope with what I know you’re going to say. Please send silent hugs through the air instead x

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