It’s goodbye, I’m afraid.

I was at the vet’s this week, and it’s not good news. As you’ll know if you’re a regular reader, it’s been touch and go for me over the past months. I’m eighteen years old and diabetic, with an overactive thyroid and a dodgy liver. They’ve had me on a special diet, but I’m still losing weight and becoming badly dehydrated. Martin and Annie have to take me to the surgery tomorrow, and I won’t be coming back.

I’ve been a very, very lucky cat. So many of us get run over by cars before we reach double figures, or drowned, or maltreated, or ignored. Whereas I have been housed in a succession of beautiful homes, fed excellent food, indulged, stimulated, and simply loved more than a creature has a right to expect. I’ve got through thousands of pounds worth of food, medicine, toys and ruined furniture, and Annie and Martin have never been cross with me for long. I don’t want to say goodbye to them and my sister Chutney, but I’ve got to go.

This is my last posting on the blog, though perhaps someone will take it over in the coming year. It’s been a privilege to write for you, and I wish you all the best for the future.

Yours, Dingo.