Stop All the Clocks

Image credit: Ashling Larkin

I’ve tried to write this before. About a million times. And each time has ended the same way — with me, in bits, on my bed, surrounded by mascara-stained tissues and sobbing my heart out. Because I haven’t been able to do it. To summarise just how much I miss him. Until now.

So now I’m finally paying tribute to my one-eyed, no-tailed, four-legged wingman.

He wasn’t just a cat: he was my life-line, and the glue that held me together when the shit hit the fan. And so, if you at any point are shaking your head and thinking that, actually, he was “just a cat” then don’t read the rest ok? Because I really don’t want you to know about him. You don’t deserve to know about him.

For everyone else, this is his story…

I got him from the RSPCA. No one else would touch him; this smashed-up, one-eyed wreck of a thing hanging around on death row, because perfect kittens were all the rage and he wasn’t either of those things. He was a black, snaggle-toothed moggie recovering from cat flu with claws like razor blades and an attitude problem.

I fell in love immediately.

And so I took him home, and me and Little Man became a team. I fed him Dreamies, and Whiskas and catnip, and in return he bit me, scratched me, and wrecked all of my furniture. And most of my clothes. He sneezed constantly, spraying the walls, the skirting boards, the sofa — me — with this stuff that, no matter what, just kept on coming.

I absolutely adored him. And he adored me; it turned out that the biting and scratching thing was what he did when he was excited. Which was most of the time, now that he had a nice place to live and someone who cared about him.

Having him around was a game-changer. He taught me loads — about trust, and resilience, and about survival. This little guy had been through the wringer and endured some terrible stuff, but he’d kept on going and despite all of the bad stuff that had happened to him, he loved unconditionally. And he stuck to me like velcro, because he knew that I loved him back.

When there was nothing left of my life to speak of, there was Little Man. When almost everyone and everything around me was long gone, it was still me and him. I would be a tear-stained mess crying in my caravan, praying for this shit to be over, and he would be right there next to me — inside my dressing gown, purring his ass off and digging his claws into my chest; letting me know in the only way he could that I was loved and that he needed me to look after him.

When I couldn’t be bothered to feed myself, I fed Little Man. When I didn’t wash, or brush my teeth or comb my hair, I still groomed him. Half-hearted, repetitive gestures that kept me going, Groundhog Day after Groundhog Day, until slowly I started to function again.

And then he died.

Because he’d been waiting for that to happen. And waiting for that day. So that he could let go of me. Because he knew that, up until that point, without him to take care of, I would have given up completely.

And so he held on. Waiting for me to get better. And he acted like he was ok. Until the day that we both knew that he wasn’t, and that I would have to do the one final thing that he needed me to do for him then, no matter how much it broke my heart.

And so I put him to sleep.

And I was inconsolable. Because this massive, little, big thing was gone and I missed him.

I slept with his ashes tucked away inside my sleeping bag when I was lonely and lost and living on a sofa. I took him with me to hospital, and to detox, and to rehab, so that he could be with me and see me getting better.

Right now he’s in my bedroom, right next to my bed as I’m writing this. Along with his photo and a few other things that remind me of him. I’m never away from him now for any distance or for any length of time as long as I can help it. Because there’s a hole in my heart without him.

And so he was never “just a cat”. He was my raison d’être. And I really, really miss him. x

#comeback

Tiara wearing, cat-loving secret snapchat queen. Mental health writer. Passionate about ending stigma on addiction / homelessness and all things mental health related.

Ashling is a Scotland-based comic artist, illustrator & animator. She graduated in 2016 from DJCAD with a 2:1 Bdes(Hons) in animation and has since been doing freelance work at the Dundee Comics Creative Space at Inkpot studio, while also working on her current ongoing project, a fantasy-adventure webcomic called “The Enchanted Book”.