On Tuesday evening, International Cat of Mystery Clive Bond walked out of the house, and he didn’t come back.
We are bereft. Such a huge part of our family, that small creature; and if mediaeval drawing conventions were still in place he would be the same size as the rest of us.
We scan the forest from the windows for a small black returning form, and leave fresh chicken out in his bowl. We open the front door and wait for him to join us as he usually does, without fail. We take the dog for long searches and shake the cat food box and call his name, again and again.
We listen to comforting tales from friends about cats returning after mammoth wanders, but the time lengthens and our master spy does not return.
We are heart-heavy.
As, I expect, are you. I waited for days in case we could write a cheery return-of-the-Clive post but there comes a moment when everyone needs to know, and this is it.
I know this is a cat, not a human.
But loss is fathomless, isn’t it?