Ollie

My oldest daughter's elderly Palliative Care Fostercat died last night, after a year in her care. Although it was undoubtedly time for him to go it does not actually make the grief any easier or less real, as any pet owner will agree.

(Hint: unless they exhibit unusually high levels of empathy, don't even bother trying to discuss this issue with non-pet-owning civilians. In the nicest possible way, they simply don't know what you are talking about: you are not speaking, despite appearances, the same language. And DON'T ever try to make parallels with human-related grief, except in a very limited way among other pet owners, and extremely carefully at that, unless you want to find yourself in horrible trouble very very rapidly. I know whereof I speak.)

Ollie was a nice old thing. His last year consisted as far as I can see of vast amounts of veterinary care, treats, unlimited unswerving affection, and getting to rule the roost over a whole household of lesser beings, which I think an old chap like that must have rather liked. I think we may safely say The Boy Done Good: and well done Becca, very very very well done indeed.