Saffy has been looking a bit worse for wear over the past three or four months. Of course, I have been preoccupied with Small Z and despite my best intentions, I know his love quota was substantially lower than previously. And this I can do nothing about. When we went to Phillip Island the other weekend I turned dictator and demanded that M take the cats to the cattery rather than just leaving them for two nights with piles of food and clean litter. I am so glad I did this.

On Wednesday M made an appointment for Saf to go to the vet. He was breathing sort of weirdly and seemed very off colour. The appointment was for 9am the next day. That night, M brought Saffy inside. He couldn’t use his back legs He lay on the floor. M implored me to give him all the love I could. I patted him into the ground, gave him water, stroked his orange furriness and sent health vibes into his little head.

An hour or two later he got up, moved nearer to the fire. We heaved a sigh of relief and went to bed. In the morning, he seemed to still be quite bit better, but Z and I piled into the car with M because I wanted to know what exactly was going on. I had a bad feeling, but not a doomladen one - according to my calculations, Saffy still had a couple of lives yet.

The vet spent so long listening to his stethescope, moving it around, listening, moving it around. I could tell it wasn’t good. He patted Saffy and told him what a good cat he was. Saff purred like a loon, but his purring had a different sound. His lungs were full of fluid - he had been having a hard time getting enough breath. I got the vet to test his urine to make sure it wasn’t kidney failure - which has always been my fear. His kidneys were still functioning.

Basically, there seemed to be no name for what he had. Things were giving out inside him. He was given an intramuscular injection to try and clear the fluid - and he didn’t like that at all. I sympathised - those injections are the worst. I was given pills for him - four a day. The vet tried twice to give him a few before we left - and that indicates what a bugger he’s always been about taking pills. We were told that it was important for him not to be stressed, as then he would breathe harder, which stressed his heart…lungs…etcetera

Giving him the pills was a disaster. It totally stressed him out. I got a few down him, and made a decision. The vet had said that he might stabilise, but would not get better. The sun was shining, and it was a beautiful day. He was not too bad, wasn’t in pain, and was still purring and finding sunny spots to sit in outside. I decided that I did not want him to crawl under the house and not be able to get out. I didn’t want him to get worse, and have pain and unhappiness. He had a KICKARSE cat life, was loved by many housemates and visitors, and pissed a lot of people off (that’s for you, Small Brother)…including me and M.

I tried one more time to give him his medication that night. No dice. That night, he moved from near the fire and we found him half sleeping on the floor at the end of my bed. Still mobile, still savvy, but not great. The next morning I called the vet and made an appointment for that afternoon. Making an appointment for your pet to die isn’t a great feeling, and I’ll be happy if I don’t have to go there ever again.

It was another sunny lovely day. I took Saffy for a walk in my arms, showed him the back paddock, took him under the trees and around the outside of the trailer. I took pictures of him sitting in the sun under the banksia tree. He was happy. He was warm. Small Z went down for a nap, and Saf and I sat in the rocking chair inside with a glass of red wine. There was a lot of patting, and I was trying to stay very relaxed, because I didn’t want to worry him. I think I succeeded.

M came home and took some more pictures, and we all got back in the car. Saf had gone willingly into his travel box - he has never minded the car too much - I used to take him with me to garage sales around St Kilda and he would sleep on the armrest in the Humber. It was a different vet, but it was the one that I have a lot of respect for. He said he had reviewed Saffy’s file and that he thought that my decision was the right one to have made. We patted Saf, who purred and purred, and he explained what would happen.

I told M and Small Z to leave, mostly because I didn’t want Saf upset by any shouting that Small Z might do. The vet-I-like found a vein in Saffy’s leg. Saf hissed at him like a grumpy trooper. And then the Saffiness left his eyes and he was all soft orange fur. It was quicker than I would have ever thought. The vet nurse plied me with tissues, as I patted my lovely cat. They took his little body out the back and put it in an environmentally friendly plastic bag that would decompose with him.

I walked out into the main part of the surgery. I don’t know what I looked like, but the other people that were in there all stopped and went silent. M gave me a hug. We got back in the car with Saf, and set off for Loch, where dad had dug a cat shaped hole near some other family cats in the back paddock. Small Z was fractious in the car, and it was like some sort of road trip black comedy as I swung between sobbing and mustering up fake jubilance to sing along to The Salteens to distract her.

At Loch I put the Saffy bag down into the bottom of the hole. Dad, M and I threw in a handful of dry catfood each, which I know he would have appreciated, and we all had a small glass of port. I filled the hole in. A little while later a rainbow appeared, and the hippy in me felt a bit better.

Saffy came from the Lost Dogs Home in North Melbourne. He was six weeks old, and feisty. He lived with me in St Kilda, East St Kilda, North Caulfield, East St Kilda, Windsor, Loch, Seddon, Hervey Bay in Queensland, Hampton, for six weeks in L’s backyard, Loch and finally here in TrailerLand. He adapted to everywhere. I wrote a song about him years ago, the first time we lived in Loch, and I’ll post it here when I dig it up, because it describes him just how he was. I miss him. I REALLY miss him. A little cat shaped part of my heart is broken.