“The things he hadn’t touched or kissed his senses
slowly stripped away
Not like Buddha not like Vishnu
life wouldn’t rise through him again”
– Lou Reed, Dime Store Mystery

A little over a year ago, just before I got Whisky, I visited my sister and nephews in England. My eldest nephew, T. had recently acquired a tiny, black kitten which he named Ivan. The ball of fluff would sit, quite contented, on T’s shoulder. Recently, Ivan didn’t come home. He was found later, dead at the roadside, presumably hit by a passing car. Some kindly soul had covered Ivan’s body with a towel. T. was, quite understandably, distraught.

One of the things that has surprised me about having Whisky is the sense of loss I feel has he grows up. I miss the way his tail no longer curls into a perfect circle; now it’s more of a loose corkscrew. I miss the way his ears no longer flop over. I miss the way he’d jump up on the sofa as soon as my back was turned, and then look at be defiantly has I tried to get him off. I miss the funny, rubbery texture of his then almost hairless tummy. I miss the way he used to hiccough in his sleep. I miss… a lot.

“In the midst of life we are in death”

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