«Six Months of Happiness»
«Blimey, it’s freezing,» the little grey cat thought, shivering at the bus stop, watching people hurry past. A young couple paused for a moment. «Poor thing,» the girl said softly. «Sorry, love, I’ve got nothing on me,» she added, shrugging. The lad tugged her sleeve, muttering something, and they disappeared into the rush-hour crowd. «Well, that’s that—didn’t win them over either,» the cat sighed. «Never mind, I’ll wait. Patience pays off.»
She couldn’t remember where she’d been born or where she’d lived before. Like someone had wiped her memory clean. Or maybe the misery of now had swallowed up everything before. «But it must’ve happened. I couldn’t have just… popped into existence. There was a mum. There was a home once.» Hunger and cold must’ve stolen it all. «No wonder no one fancies me—just a scruffy little moggy, dirty too. Not my fault, mind you. Bet you’d look rough if you’d been living in hedges and bins as long as I have.»
She couldn’t recall the last proper meal. Two days ago? Three? Staggering toward the bus stop, her vision swam with swirls of colour. «Well, that’s it then. The Rainbow Bridge is calling,» she murmured before collapsing onto the damp pavement.
No idea how long she lay there. Then suddenly—warm, rough hands lifting her. You tucked her inside your coat, and for the first time, she felt safe. The bus stop faded behind you both, the chill in her bones easing as the colours in her eyes dimmed. Just like that, she had a Home. You. Your mum. The little lad who’d become her tiny human. And a name—Smudge. Lovely name, that. Later, standing in a bowl of warm water (third refill by then, filthy thing she was), she thought, «There *are* cat gods. Rainbow Bridge ones. And they listened.»
They say cats hate water. She didn’t. Not then. Because she *knew*—the worst was over. Ahead lay years of love. And love it was. Wholehearted, from both sides.
But turns out, even rainbows have limits. The vet visit came next. The young woman poked and prodded, needles stinging. Smudge bore it—trusted you. «For my own good,» she thought. Next day, you returned. The vet prattled on, showing papers, tossing around some fancy name for the thing eating her up. Watched your shoulders slump. Then the vet gestured at her, and—*»No. No way.»* You nearly shouted. Mum cried. *»We fight. Till the last breath, if there’s even a sliver of chance.»* And into the carrier she went.
So began your tiny war. Against the Big Sleep. Some days, the illness retreated. Others, it lunged back. Autumn bled into winter, then spring thawed the snow. You’d carry her into the garden, promising, *»Wait till the blossoms come. Then it’ll be alright.»* Shame she won’t see them. The fancy-named thing won.
This sunny spring morning, it’s time. «Don’t fuss with treats,» she’d say if she could. «Just hold me. And—put on that cartoon for the little lad. The one with the cat and mice. He loves that.» (She did too, even if the mice looked nowt like real ones.) Keep him busy. No need him seeing this. Tell him Smudge wandered off. No tears, either. You did *everything*. More than most would.
«Strange—no pain now,» she thinks, curled in your arms. Spring sun through the window. Mum quietly weeping. On the telly, the cartoon cat sings: *»Paths may part, but who knows? Might meet again.»*
Somewhere, she’d heard cats sometimes return to those who loved them hard. If it’s true? She’d choose you lot. In a heartbeat. Lick mum’s tears. Purr the lad to sleep. Six months—even happy ones—ain’t enough, is it?
«Right then. Angel’s here. Time to go.» One last thanks—for the warm house, the fireside snoozes, the garden walks in your arms. For the way a scruffy stray gets to leave this world clean, full, *named*, and loved. Not bad, that.
(P.S. Wrote this for our Smudge. Twenty years on, the ache still creeps back every autumn. Maybe putting it to paper’ll help. Sleep soft, little one.)