We said goodbye to Mrs. Hudson yesterday.
She was sixteen years old, which is pretty elderly for a cat. She’s been my old lady since I brought her home seven years ago, creeping around the house, hiding in my towel cupboard, and catching the mice that tried to invade my home. She drooled when she purred, shed all over the entire house, and hated every single other cat that I tried to bring home—including the three week old kittens my sister found by the side of the road.
I’m utterly devastated.
I don’t know if animal soul mates are a thing, but she was mine. I’ve never met an animal who so completely matched my personality before. She was introverted, crotchety, picky, and—when she felt like it—overly needy, which, if you know me, is basically my entire personality. But she was also incredibly loving, loyal, gentle, and always seemed to know when I was crying on the couch and needed a friend. I’m pretty sure we were the same person, and I don’t think I’ll ever find another cat who was so completely suited to me. In fact, I very much doubt I’ll ever try.
We buried her in the woods behind our house, with a big chunk of white stone over her grave, and my sister is fairly convinced that she’s going to come back and haunt my house for the rest of forever.
I’m hoping she does. She would make a very gentle, very loving ghost.
So, here’s to Mrs. Hudson. She was not my housekeeper . . . but she was my very special friend. And I’ll miss her.