Bernie

Now this blog is a memorial.

Bernie died last week. I'm still so upset about it I don't really want to write anything here. But I said I would write every day and I haven't been here for a week.

Poor Bernie had diabetes. There was no way my grandmother could give him shots every day. So he was put to sleep by the vet. He was 14 years old. The cat, not the vet. Maybe 15.

When I got him from the SPCA - 13 years ago - the SPCA told me the guy who had brought him in had asked them to put the cat down. They didn't, and I met him when I went to take the "Pet of the Week" photo for the little paper I worked for. The SPCA lady was calling him "Bertie" after Engelbert Humperdinck. Poor cat!

So I went home and said to my husband "can we have a cat?" and he said "No". If only I had listened to him, I would have spared myself and my grandmother and the rest of the family the gut-wrenching feelings of losing a much-loved pet.

My poor grandmother now has to go on about her life without Bernie's company - and fairly demanding company at that. He literally gave her a reason to get out of bed in the morning. She had to get up and let him in, feed him and then let him out. And then let him back in again, cos he liked to be brushed at about 10, 10.30am.

There are lots of Bernie stories. I'll save them for another blog. Or two.