My Charlie-cat was put to sleep yesterday. I miss him so very badly, which is odd because we have three other cats (and the neighbour's cat who is certain he lives here and not over the road) but none of them are Charlie.

We were never really sure of Charlie's age because he appeared, randomly, one winter as a stray. His fur was a grey-white colour and he was really very skinny. He used to sit in the hedge that once separated our garden, and that of Jackie, our next door neighbour. She fed him, and so did we. He started to use our garage, which is situated right between the two houses, as his home because it had a hole on the side of the roof that he would wriggle through. My father refused to let him in, and would aim kicks at him if he tried, but we continued to feed him anyway. He was our garage cat. He was devoted to Sophie (who despite hissing and growling at him, would roll on her back and flirt in an appalling manner, the little hussy) and would make chirrupy little sounds to her.

When we first were getting to know Charlie, he used to randomly lash out. We soon realised that he would get very nervous and edgy if anything passed too close to his left side. If someone walked past him and brushed him on that side (and the stubborn animal liked to sit right in the middle of doorways and stairs) then he'd get very anxious and scared and swipe with his claws. We thought he might have been kicked or ill treated and that the behaviour was a result of that. This eased off, but very gradually, and the last few times he did this, he would make a visible effort to calm himself and either flinch, or swipe with his claws restracted so it didn't hurt. He would sometimes scratch if touched on that side of his head unexpectedly, or if he was unsettled and edgy. The one time he did this to me, when my sister had arrived home (and he did not know her very well) and my father, who Charlie disliked, was in the other room, he honestly seemed mortified. For a few days he moved himself out of the house and into the garage, and no amount of talking to him or trying to tempt him in would work. He seemed to sentence himself to some sort of exclusion until he felt he had showed how sorry he was.

When we threw my father out, we moved Charlie in. Having nursed him through cat flu, we sort of felt he deserved to spend more time indoors. My dad discovered this when he dropped around for a shirt or something and tried to kick him. I was fuming (and in the bathroom, so unable to like.. storm out) so I yelled at him from behind the door that Charlie lived here and it had nothing to do with him. It was probably one of the first times I'd shouted. But I was so, so angry. When I came out, Charlie had hidden in my room - he never really went into my room before or after that, but the clever kitty had scampered in until I was out the bathroom and on hand to defend him in person. Charlie felt that we deserved something for letting him move in, apparently. So he brought us a big, dead rat. He placed it right at the back door, next to my rabbits, and terrified my mum who screamed when she found it. We knew it was him because no other cat used the back door - and he spent the rest of that night trying to catch us another. From the window, you could see this bright white cat silhouette in the shadows, watching intently under the tree where we feed the birds.

Charlie had his very own chair. He discovered chairs, and became very attached to that one. Sometimes he'd steal mine (because apparently, cats and I share the same taste in chairs... they all do it, but only to MY chairs, the brats) but he would sleep at night on his own chair. He was the best house cat. He would sleep through the entire night, waking no one. If he wanted to go out, he would hop onto the side near the front door and play with the keys until someone came. When they did, he'd lift his head with a chirrup sound. Despite his initial reluctance to be touched, he became one of the most affectionate cats. It irritated everyone else that he, for some weird reason, would deliberately seek me out. He used to charge in and find me in the dining room when he first arrived here. He'd clamber onto the table and head butt me obsessively until I'd be pleading with someone to feed him and make him stop. Then he'd come and sit on the arm of the chair and just rest his head on my shoulder and purr. He had the best purr. If I so much as glanced his way, his face would honestly light up and in a bound he'd be on my knee as if that accidental glance was an invitation.

At night, when everyone else had gone to bed, and it was just he and I down here, he'd lie across the room sprawled out, sometimes looking across. He'd let me kiss him on the head as I turned the lights off, and he'd be purring in the dark as I went off to bed.

When Charlie got sick, and we didn't know what was wrong, I thought he was dying. Watching him struggle for breath made my own chest feel tight in the worst kind of way. I never stopped feeling anxious even when the anti-biotics seemed to be working. I'd come down every morning and ask how he was, immediately, just because I kept thinking he'd somehow relapse. And yesterday he did. Suddenly he could not breathe, and he wanted us to know. Unlike before where he had hidden away, he came and found us. When he got up to leave the room - while we were finding emergency vet numbers, because with it being a bank holiday, no where was freaking open - I went after him and put my hand on his side to try and feel how fast his heart was going. He collapsed under my hand. We had to get my uncle to drive us to the vets. I was sat with Charlie in the back, and by the time we got there he was breathing through his mouth.

He was rushed off for oxygen, and when the vet had a chance to look at him, he said he wanted to drain his lungs of fluid that had built up, and x-ray him. So we had to leave him there, and wait for a phonecall. A few hours later, the vet called and said that Charlie had tumours on his lungs, and that his lungs were already refilling with fluid. He said we could take him home and book him into our usual vets to be put to sleep, or go back there and do it that evening. We went back, because there was no need to prolong his suffering. They let us see him beforehand, in the oxygen chamber thing. My poor Charlie looked so strange with his sides shaved where they'd done his lungs, but he was happy to see us. He couldn't understand why there was plastic between us, and kept trying to rub his face against our hands flat against it. I managed to wriggle a finger in, and he was pawing at it and trying to meow. When they carried him into the little room, and like hell was I leaving him alone, he couldn't really stand, but he was purring because we were all stroking him. And when they injected him, for one horrible second it was like he realised what they were doing and he tried to pull away. And then he was just dead, lying on the table, not even looking like my cat anymore.

My mum can't stand dead bodies. She didn't want to bring him home because the idea of a body in the back of the car repulsed her. I doubt we could have dug a hole big enough, even if the ground wasn't like rock with the cold at the moment. So we left him there. Not like he needed that body anymore.

Two of our cats are distressed at the moment. Sophie, who I think considered growling to be the equivalent to Charlie's chirrups and purrs at her, is quiet and keeps walking around searching as she does it. Muffin, who is a little weirdo, is pacing around very quickly, searching everywhere, and looking scared. To make matters so much better, he then decided to poop mid-search, which is extremely odd behaviour. I don't think Billy has noticed, as such, but the other cats are making him anxious too.

To be honest, the entire situation is absolute shit. I'm sick of one bad thing following on from another. Maybe some sadistic asshole is having a laugh somewhere. Maybe it's karma, maybe I was reeeeally bad in another life. Though if that's the case, I guess my family must have been too. Maybe it's just crappy luck. I really don't know. I DO know there's not much to be done about it. There's no real point in ranting and raving about this kind of thing is unfair. It happened, and it happens. So I guess it just needs to be dealt with.

Charlie could not have been saved. I suppose everything had to die some way. For him, the last thing we could do for him was to put an end to his suffering and give him a death that was not drawn out.

I'm not being a bitch when I say how I don't want to talk about this. It's not a subject that'll ever make for good conversation. It's not something I want to dwell on and brood over. He had a good life whilst here. I'll miss him a lot.