Dear Norman,

I was going to say that you have been my faithful furball for over fourteen years, but actually, ‘faithful’ is not entirely accurate.  ‘Indifferent’ is probably closer to the truth.

We’ve been through a lot together, haven’t we? Living in Pog Towers with those terrible neighbours next door who were always shouting, your brother Charlie disappearing on us forever, good times, bad times and, wool…so much wool.  I think you loved my crochet as much as I did – you were often tangling up balls or capturing the moving thread, or just sitting on the side of the chair, snoozing next to me.

You’ve never been a lap cat.  When it was bed time though, you used to climb on top of the wardrobe and watch me go to sleep.  When you thought I’d drifted off you’d jump down, zoom out through the cat flap and make the most of the night.  I took that as a sign of your love.

And if gifts are a sign of love, you nailed that too.  I’ve had rats, mice (dead, alive and dismembered), frogs (alive), slowworms (both.  Do you know how hard it is to catch a live slow worm without claws, Norms?) a frog, birds…. Do you remember that magpie you set free in the conservatory?  That was a fun few hours.

And the pigeon that you stunned, brought in, sat with it between your paws and de-feathered while looking at me with a ‘what are you going to do about it?’ gleam in your eye.  I felt so guilty that I didn’t wrestle it off you sooner and put it out of its misery; instead, I panicked a bit, wrapped it in a tea towel and threw it half dead over the back fence.  I apologised to that pigeon and promised that I’d never be such a coward again.

You heard, didn’t you?  Because I think it was only a week or so later that you did almost the exact same thing again early one morning.  And this time I had no choice; I’d promised.  I got a carrier bag, removed the partially dead pigeon from your grasp and…. wondered what the hell to do next – I walked down our teeny tiny garden – in PJs, dressing gown and orange crocs – and found a longish lump of wood behind the shed.  I took a deep breath and hit the pigeon, inside the bag on the ground as hard as I could.  The lump of wood splintered and snapped in two.  I was pretty sure the bird was still alive.  In desperation and with no other options, I repeatedly swung the bag of mostly dead pigeon at the fence, hoping that each thud had killed it but not wanting to stop in case it was still alive and suffering.  It was horrible.  I felt sick. I really hope none of the neighbours were looking.  I can only assume they weren’t as presumably they’d have called someone…the police?  The RSPCA?  A doctor?

You also used to bring me human food: cooked sausages, chicken breasts, and one Christmas day morning, your pièce de résistance:  A raw salmon fillet.  Unlike the other poor animals, there was never so much as a tooth mark on these.  It was as though you really did intend for them to be mine.

When I sold Pog Towers we moved in with Mum and Dad – only for a few weeks but it was slightly chaotic:  you, me and your litter box in a tiny single room, having to shut the front and back doors so fast in case you escaped onto the busy road just outside.  Attempting to put you on a lead so you could explore safely.  Note to self:  Cats and leads are not a good combination…

Driving you to Mum and Dads caused you so much anguish that I dreaded driving you over an hour away to our next house so I got drugs. For you, although I probably could have done with them too.  We (You) tried them out and the drugs did work…but only once, it turned out.  The trip to our new place was filled with your irate screeching.  So it’s a good job we were there quite a few months.  I worked from home a lot there.  You sat or slept near me at my desk a lot of that time.  You weren’t keen on Mr R going to London, so every time he laid out his shirt in preparation, you’d lie down on it and cover it with fur.  One time you got in the wardrobe and clawed all his shirts into an unwearable state. All of them 🤦🏼‍♀️

We moved again to our forever house and I think you’ve loved it here.  We have a big garden and you’ve often helped me in that.  You’ve had more space than we ever had before and an upstairs, which was something new too.  When Percy came along – chosen specifically because I thought a black puppy that was smaller than you would be acceptable, and you might even be friends – you moved upstairs (it wasn’t acceptable, it turned out).  That was yours, and we respected that by putting in a stair gate.

But things have changed again.  A few months ago I couldn’t get you to eat, then you turned into some sort of furry locust – begging for food, swiping for food, demanding it.  And not just yours – ours and Percy’s too.  And you stopped going upstairs.  Everywhere has been ‘yours’ and Percy could expect a swipe and a hiss if he came anywhere close.

I’ve never had a cat stick around with me as long as you, so I’ve been expecting no more Norman for a while.  Has your change in behaviour been one last hoorah?  You’ve been looking a bit old and worn out…but so am I.

The vet gave me a chart so I could monitor your quality of life.  I’ve been saying a while it’s not fair that we can put animals out of their suffering but not humans.  But it is such a hard decision to make when it’s not entirely clear cut.  I’d never be able to make that call for a human.  I wasn’t even that great when it came to pigeons…

But Norman, I’d hoped I’d just know when it was time for you.  I made ‘the’ appointment two days ago but my head was a mess because I wasn’t entirely sure it was right; your quality of life had significantly declined, but there was still a little there, I thought.  All day you stuck to me like glue.  You spent more time with me than you have over the last six months put together. I wondered if you were trying to tell me I was making a mistake and pleading for me to change my mind and cancel the appointment.  Someone wise suggested that you might be trying to thank me though, and being with me was your way to do that.

And yesterday you suddenly became properly poorly – crying, being sick and not eating.  I gave up putting the sofa back together or putting away the cleaning stuff.

So today we will do that hardest final trip.  I’ve been and got you drugs so you will start drifting on your own Norman sized cloud before we even get to the vet so it’s as peaceful and comfortable as it can possibly be.  I asked the receptionist if they would prescribe one for me too; they suggested we share.

I won’t share it though, Norms.  Because you’ve been there for me – admittedly at a significant distance, but you have been there.  And I want to be there for you too, my indifferent, independent but secretly loving feline fur ball.  And I will.  I’ll be stroking you just how you like it as I get to say goodnight one last time.  Sleep well, my Norman.

Love always,

Mum. x