He was just a cat. Except, he wasn’t.

An obituary for Oaty. RIP.

At 4pm, I write about happiness. It’s on my mind, because I’m feeling it. I’m happy.

At 1.30am, someone leaves a voicemail. My phone is on airplane mode, so I won’t hear it until the morning.

I go downstairs at 8am, my family still sleeping, and I decide to feed the cat before he comes in.

I’m not sure why it’s taken me four years to realise that this make…