Goodbye to Tom, the most dignified cat in Barendrecht 🐈‍⬛

Today I have a long face. Not because of the food (that's another battle), but because Tom, the cat of Uncle Antonio and Aunt Wilma, has passed away. They say he was very old, about seventeen years, which in human years must be something like having lived all the seven lives that cats are promised... and a little more. He was defeated by a tumour in his jaw, and, so he wouldn't suffer, they helped him fall asleep forever.

Tom was a cat with character, the kind that doesn't shrink from anyone, not even an Andalusian bodeguero with radar ears and a travelling soul like me. Our first times together were... let's say tense. I would approach, wagging my tail diplomatically, and he would respond with a hiss that sounded like it came from a pressure cooker. But deep down we understood each other: two males with their rules, their territory and their pride.

The last time we saw each other, in May, things were different. There was no longer a cold war or flying claws. We shared a sofa, each on his own side, of course - the safety distance is sacred. He purred softly, I pretended to sleep but with one eye half open, watching. Just in case he suddenly stole my blanket. But no: that day peace reigned.

Tom had a special knack for choosing thrones. In summer he would lie under the kiwi tree in the garden, his favourite place. There he hunted shadows, listened to the birds and pretended that the whole world was his. Now they have buried him right there, where he used to take his naps in the sun. I like to think that the tree will continue to flourish with a bit of Tom's spirit, and that the branches will bear kiwis with a flavour of whiskers.

Uncle Antonio and Aunt Wilma are sad, of course. They have shared an entire life with that stubborn, headstrong and noble little cat. I understand them: when a furry companion leaves, the silence becomes strange. The sound of little paws in the hallway is missing, the sigh when sleeping, the "meow" that asks for food when it's not time yet. A soul that gave meaning to the days is missing.

I like to think that, wherever good animals go, there is a huge sofa with soft cushions, eternal sunbeams and a dog that doesn't bark too loudly. Surely Tom is already there, stretched out with feline elegance, watching everything from his personal cloud, with that look that said "I'm in charge".

And who knows, maybe when I get there someday, he'll let me share the sofa again. With the same safety distance, of course. But this time, without hissing.

Have a good trip, Tom. May the wind caress your whiskers and may you never lack a ray of sunshine to lie down and sleep.