As a little girl, I had always wanted a kitten. My father did not like cats, so I was in my early twenties when my first kitten arrived. I’ve had cats, or should I say, cats have deigned to be in my life ever since. My first ginger, Comfrey, elected to stay with the new tenant in a flat I moved from. My second cat was a tortoise shell. Calico, a rescue who chose me, was my constant for ten years, through times of turmoil, pain and uncertainty, in three different towns and more house moves that I can remember. Tasha, too, at nineteen, had been with us for more than ten years when she died.
So, Rosie, also a tortoise shell only spending eleven months with us, and leaving a life time of memories, has left an indelible mark.
A year ago this month, Rosie didn’t come home and sleep at the foot of the bed; in the morning, she didn’t come for breakfast.
They found her in a culvert across the road from our house. She’d been hit by a car. She wouldn’t have known, so she didn’t suffer.
Angels left this posy in our watering can later that day.
Rosie’s angel hangs in our bedroom window; she still watches over us and the village.