There is a quote I keep coming back to: “Some people come into our lives and leave footprints on our hearts, and we are never ever the same.” In my case, those prints come from paws – and they belong to one particular cat.
We didn’t even want her. We had reserved her brother, a gorgeous silver maine coon named Ollie, who would join his older brother, Leo, who we had got a year earlier. But when we travelled the 150 miles to Doncaster to pick him up, the breeders offered us Lizzy as well – a sort of buy one, get one free. The runt of the litter, Lizzy had nearly died soon after she was born and was so small she had to be hand-fed every couple of hours. She and Ollie were inseparable and it seemed cruel to part them. She was a birdlike creature with a shock of cream fur, amber eyes, and a shy, sensitive nature.
All cats are special in their own way, and as she grew older it became clear that Lizzy’s particular gift was to know when you weren’t feeling great, and sit to share the moment with you. From headaches to hangovers, she would be there. In 2012, aged 45, I was reassured by my GP that the pain in my breast wasn’t a sign of cancer, but to go for a mammogram to be on the safe side. There wasn’t any cancer where the pain was, but, totally coincidentally, there was in my other breast.
I tried not to make a big deal out of it; the cancer could be treated and my kids were 13 and 15, so they had enough going on being teenagers. But it was Lizzy whose presence gave me comfort, a shadow following me around, a silent support when I felt the tears of uncertainty welling up. After surgery, I came home to find her at the front window, looking out for me. Later, exhausted and in pain from radiotherapy, I would lie down and she would instantly be there, just wanting to sit beside me and purr. Often my tears spilled on her.
Cats can’t really know what you’re feeling or thinking, but it felt as if Lizzy did – and this helped me get through some dark days. Pets don’t judge, they don’t offer advice, their loyalty is never doubted. When I recovered, she was always there for me: running to greet me at the door after a day at the office, crawling on to the bed in the middle of the night trying to sleep with her paws on my pillow, standing guard by my keyboard as I worked from home, patiently hoping for head rubs.
It was kidney disease that took her from us, very suddenly and very cruelly in 2018. I wasn’t ready for it. Who is? Her ashes are still in our garage, neatly boxed with her name on the front. Since then there have been times when we have thought about burying her, next to her brothers – a proper ceremony with her human family all present. But the truth is I haven’t been ready to say goodbye, even five years on. Now I realise it’s time. The ashes can be buried; Lizzy’s pawprints will be with me for ever.
