Sleep well, Hanni
It's reached the end of a day I'd rather not have happened. Ignoring the 5am bladder call (if I can't make it through the night undisturbed in my late 20's I hate to think what's in store for me in my 60's) my morning opened with a text from my mum saying our cat Hannibal was not well. Within 3 hours I crying in the car on the way out of the vets with the carry basket on my lap with the weight of my dear pet that had breathed its last minutes before.
He was only 13 years old. He died weak with a failing liver and dehydration, but I was assured in very little pain. It had only been five months since I moved out of the flat which my mum took over to look after our three moggies. I feel most sorry for her. The arrangement was intended for her to have her companions back for their elder life though I expected she'd have a good couple of years before she had to shed any tears for them.
Hanni was a lovely, loyal animal. He'd visit me at the desk to see what I was up to and bop the screen where the cursor moved. There was very little chance of watching TV on the sofa without him digging his claws in trying to make a comfy spot. First task after getting home from a day at work would be to change trousers to slacks which could afford the snags. And at night he'd watch over me from the bench next to the bed before clambering over my head to go settle himself down somewhere around my feet.
No doubt mum and I will continue to tell his story wherever opportunity presents itself. He will always be remembered as the young cat with crazy perseverance. As a 2-3 year old, insisting that the 2"x 3" banister post was the best place to get a good night's rest, he scrabbled his way up there every night but for weeks on end. Bedtime would be punctuated each evening with a thud, thud, thud, thud, thud of increasing tempo as Hanni dropped off and, well, dropped off down the staircase. Each episode was repeated half a dozen times or more before he realised the futility of his endeavours.
I'm going to miss him.