She sat on the vet’s table, her coat black against a pale blue blanket.
She made no fuss, no attempt to fight; just sat quietly between my hands.
She still purred, though faintly, her breath coming in short gasps.
The vet pierced her skin, pumped pink liquid into her vein;
seconds later her body sank down like a deflated cushion.

Eighteen years before, my son and I’d walked into a Richmond pet shop.
On a whim we’d imagined tabby and black companions for our new home.
There they were, waiting for us, as if knowing we would come;
He, all tiger-striped, and she a black and white chocolate-box picture,
her paws white-tipped, her nose a half-dab of pink and white splodge.

There was a touch of magic in the blackness of her coat,
a sixth sense of clairvoyance in the yellow glow of her eyes,
as if she had travelled some broomstick years before meeting us.
She would join me in the dark shadow of a sad moment,
lie beside me in candlelit meditation, adding her music to my silence.

We’d have our battles. She’d outwit my careful plans, would hide
when children were due, or when we needed to take her to kennel or vet.
Oblivious of flight departures, she’d secrete herself into tiny spaces
of a cupboard, fireplace or the inaccessible centre beneath our bed,
forcing us to crawl and entreat her till she deigned to give in.

I thought I heard her bell this morning, turned as the wind blew the cat flap,
thought I caught her squeak of hungry greeting as I made breakfast,
took care not to tread on some half-eaten mouse on the now too-clean carpet,
expected her to jump onto the sofa of this dark winter’s evening;
but no, she’s just here, walking the long pathways of my mind.