**Six Months of Happiness**
“Blimey, it’s freezing out here,” thought the little grey tabby, her stomach growling as she sat at the bus stop, watching the rush of people hurry past. A young couple paused for a moment. “Poor thing,” the woman murmured, shaking her head. “Sorry, love, I’ve got nothing on me.” Her partner tugged her sleeve, muttering something, and soon they were swallowed by the crowd. “Well, that’s that,” the cat sighed. “I’ll wait. I’ve got patience.”
She couldn’t remember where she’d been born, where she’d come from. It was as if her past had been wiped clean—or maybe the misery of the present had drowned it out. “But it must’ve existed,” she thought. “I didn’t just appear out of thin air. There was a mother, a home once. Probably the hunger and cold scrambled my head. And people don’t like me because I’m plain, a stray. And filthy. But that’s not my fault.” Her ribs ached. “Let’s see how you’d look after scrounging through bins and sleeping in doorways.”
She couldn’t recall the last time she’d eaten. Two days ago? Three? Stumbling toward the bus stop, coloured spots danced in her vision. “This is it,” she thought. “The Rainbow Bridge is calling me.” And with a final sway, she collapsed onto the cold, wet pavement.
How long she lay there, she didn’t know. Then, suddenly—rough but warm hands lifted her. You tucked her under your coat, and for the first time, she felt warmth. As you carried her away, the cold faded, and the rainbow in her eyes dimmed.
Home. You. Mum. A little boy. And a name—*Smudge*. A good name, a pretty one. Later, standing in a bowl of warm water, watching the grime swirl away, she thought, *They do exist. The Cat Gods. The Rainbow Bridge. They heard me.* They say cats hate water, fear it. But she wasn’t afraid. She *knew* the worst was over. Ahead lay a long, happy life—loved, and loving in return.
But even miracles have limits.
The vet visit came next. A young woman in a white coat poked and prodded, fingers pressing gently but firmly. She endured it—she trusted you. “Come back tomorrow,” the vet said.
The next morning, you returned. The vet spoke in low tones, gesturing at charts. A disease with a long, unpronounceable name. One that didn’t like to be beaten. She saw your shoulders slump, heard the catch in Mum’s breath. Then you stood abruptly. “No. No way!” Your voice cracked. “We’ll fight—every last chance!” And back into the carrier she went.
So began your little war. A battle against the inevitable. Some days, the disease retreated. Others, it surged back. Autumn passed. Winter melted into spring. You’d carried her into the garden that winter, promising, *Wait till the roses bloom. If we make it that far, we’ve won.*
She wished she could’ve seen them.
But the disease won.
This bright spring morning, it was time. “Don’t bother with treats,” she’d have said, if she could. “Just hold me. Let me feel your warmth a little longer.” And one last request: *Put on the little one’s cartoon. The one with the cat and the mice. I liked watching it with him.* Better he didn’t see her go. Tell him Smudge wandered off. No need for his small heart to know death.
*Don’t cry. Don’t blame yourselves. You did everything—more than anyone could.* A life’s length isn’t ours to choose. She wasn’t angry hers had been short. What good was anger against fate?
*Thank you.* For six months of quiet happiness. For love that thawed her soul. For evenings by the telly, chin scritches, lazy mornings. For the old garden, her toys—the squeaky mouse, the battered rubber bunny. Give them to the neighbours’ kitten, the playful one. Maybe he’d remember her sometimes.
Funny. Nothing hurt now. The spring sun warmed her fur through the window. Mum wept silently. On the telly, a cartoon cat sang: *”Paths may part, but we’ll meet again.”*
She’d heard once—cats sometimes come back to those who loved them. If it were true, she’d return in a heartbeat. To lick away tears, purr bedtime stories, feel your hands again. Six happy months wasn’t enough, was it?
But someone was waiting. An angel, just behind you. “It’s time,” he whispered.
One last thanks. The greatest gift? That she—a scruffy stray—would leave this world clean, full, named, and *loved* in your arms.
*Goodbye.*
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*In memory of Smudge, who we fought for but couldn’t save. Twenty years on, the ache lingers. Maybe putting it to paper will ease it. Soft clouds, little one. Forgive us.*