Over Christmas, my old cat Penny died. She was 21. Happy, ornery and enormously loved, healthy up until the day she died. Very, very missed.
You develop a routine around a little fixture like this. Long after they're gone, the routine is hard to break. The habit of looking for her still catches me by surprise.
A naughty cat she was too. Take the time I was having a cheese picnic in bed. I left to get a drink, returned to find Penny laying on the cheese, her head supported gently by the gouda.
Big personalities come in small packages.