The later part of this past week has been difficult for me. I learnt on Thursday that my beautiful cat Henry Biscuit had died at the age of fifteen. I am absolutely devastated at losing him, we had been hoping to have him when we had a house of our own in the future. The worst thing has been the thought that we are due to go home and see my family next week and it is tearing me up inside knowing he won't be there. I think it won't properly sink in until I'm at home and don't see him sitting up on the wall.
I had him as a present for getting a good school report when I was ten back in 1997. At the time I couldn't decide between the names Henry, after Henry VIII as I had a love of all things Tudor at the time, and Biscuit who was the ginger cat from one of my magazines at the time, so I just put the two together and he was Henry Biscuit. He was happiest sitting with me in my room as I sat writing my stories and poems, my teenage companion when nobody else understood. He knew all my secrets and now he's gone.
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