Fizz has left the building

My best cat, Fizz died this week, from kidney failure, the curse of cats. He was born on the sofa in our front room (although not the same sofa as I now have guests will be relieved to know) and effervesced into the world with such vibrancy that we gave him Fizzy as a temporary name until his real owners renamed him. He was a perfect marmalade cat, affectionate and lively and in due course we waved him off to his home in London in the arms of my godson. When, about a year later, Fizz’s family moved abroad to a 4th floor flat high above a busy street in Rome with a broad terrace balcony with low walls, Fizz came back and stayed since.

He was the most affectionate of animals who never lashed out or got tired of attention. He grew large and healthy and as far as a cat can have feelings he cared for us and seemed to know his tribe.

And now he’s lying under a tree in our garden having grown thin and wasted over the past few months, prey to the same problem as his mother who died when she was 6. And the house seems empty. I still open the front door with care, forgetting he’s not behind it, waiting to welcome me home. I close the bedroom door at night, by habit, despite there being no risk of 6kg of affectionate ginger cat landing on my chest in the middle of the night, the heavy, crushing feeling making me fear heart attack. I expect to hear his morning miaow demanding breakfast and of course it doesn’t happen and I expect him to lightly jump onto the sofa beside me to sit close and purr like an idling engine.

I knew I’d miss him when the time came – and by heck I do.