Compared with my wife, for example, I don't dream very often - or, at any rate - I don't recall doing so. So, referring back to the previous blog, it came as a bit of a surprise to me to realise that I had dreamt about the cat on the night it died; and I have to admit that the cynic in me has struggled to ignore the possibility that this occurred at exactly the time Pussy Cat took its last breath.
I've always considered myself to be a 'dog-person'; so, whilst my wife and #2 son have been upset (although he's attempting to conceal it, Adam will have been particularly upset because he had become extremely fond of the cat) I hadn't expected to be quite so affected myself. The fact remains, however, that I have; and as a consequence, have spent a lot of time thinking about it today.
The thought which has been foremost in my mind is the fact that, although it remained feral and quite independent, over the past nine months, the cat had spent most nights in a cellar area underneath our flat. Furthermore, whilst most owners pick their pets, we were actually chosen by the cat and, to some extent, that has been a privilege as well as a comfort.
