Henry died early this morning on the way to the emergency vet. I don’t know what happened, it was very sudden. After coming back home without him and barely being able to look at the other cats –especially Charlie– I went back to bed. Each time I woke up I thought, “what a horrible nightmare” before remembering that it really happened. He and Charlie were born in October, same litter. They will — no, Charlie will be three in about two weeks.
Normally, if I was anywhere near this sad, Henry would curl up with me and I’d fall asleep to his rhythmic purring. He’d stay as close as possible, with his face tucked under my chin and you can’t wake up like that without feeling like at least some things are all right. He was the cat every kitten-loving little girl wants; an oversized living teddy that follows you around, the sort that nuzzles back. It’s really hard to remember that he’s gone. It’s hard to sit here without him at my side, pushing his way onto my lap. Twice I’ve hesitated at the bathroom door, waiting for him to run in in front of me like he does. Or did. It’s so quiet without his chirping sounds, and hearing Charlie’s go unanswered sends my heart into further disrepair.
