I’m writing this post for me – because I need to write about Nutmeg. Back in 1986 or thereabouts, I went to a house in Norwich and offered a home to a little tabby kitten no more than five weeks old. Today, I made a promise to see her in the next life, as I said goodbye to my tiny, bony little 22-year old Nutmeg.
Nutmeg was Tizzy’s cat, not mine but a dog’s cat – and that’s how she lived her life – at home with dogs regardless of their size or familiarity with the feline race. She was always a small cat, but lived a strong life, her own life, a long life.
Another soul that I’ll carry with me forever, in my memories and in my heart. Like the many dog souls that Nutmeg outlived. And, as each one has gone, my heart has been full with ache and love.
Today it feels like the pain will be here always. And it will. Time doesn’t heal, but love settles down and finds a space in who we are. Maybe this seems ridiculous as a sentiment for a cat – but 22 years is a long time. Nearly half my life.
So Nutmeg, I’ll miss you. My desk seems empty without you lying on the keyboard. This was a long lived love – and I wish you could have lived forever, but I will love you forever. I can still hear you purring – I hope I always will.