In the spring, she was still leaping with that astonishing sprung energy onto the kitchen counter. Then, she started being sick. The vet rang to say he had found an inoperable tumour in her stomach; he could put her to sleep there and then on the operating table. But he, who never has an opinion, was quite firm. Lyra shouldn’t die alone among strangers; he wanted her to come home to be with her family.
He was right. The steroids bought her one glorious last summer. Watching her dwindle was hard, but if she could bear it so must we. Instinctively, we all – the children who held that silver kitten are adults now – lifted her onto the counter to spare her the indignity of knowing she could no longer make the leap. “She will tell us when it’s time,” he said. “She’ll go into herself.” And that’s exactly how it was.
Cats are so mysterious that, even after death, she still seems to be here. I woke up the other morning and I was sure I heard her turn-the-tap-on cry. Strange thing to say, but it was a privilege to share this life with that remarkable creature. I don’t think we’ve fully grasped what animals mean to human beings. She wasn’t a pet; the silver shadow of a shade, intense beauty, our family’s beloved spirit animal.
Oh, look what you did, dear Lyra! You made me a cat person.