And so farewell Little Murphie.

We said a tearful goodbye to our little girl on Tuesday afternoon, after just over five years of being entertained by her company.

I am usually able to bash out these blog posts with little effort. But I have been staring at the screen now for almost fifteen minutes, trying to describe how I currently feel.

We always thought that Murphie was relatively healthy. She had her annual jabs, and didn’t really bother us with any other health issues.

It was a struggle to take her to the vets each year. She was from the cat rescue and had previous ‘issues.’

I am immensely proud of how we were able to give her our trust. She was an incredibly unforgiving and sweet little girl. She just didn’t like anyone else apart from Anna or me.

You don’t really give death much thought when it comes to cats. What’s the point in sharing their friendship when you are always looking over your shoulder?

I genuinely thought that we had another optimistic ten years or so with her. She was only eight years old when we had to make that painful decision.

I kept on telling her that we are growing old together as each morning I hobbled down the stairs and she sprinted ahead of me.

The first signs of the recent problems came a couple of Fridays ago. She hadn’t moved from her chosen sleeping spot all morning.

Looking back now and we should have noticed something sooner. I was arriving back from my early morning swim over the past couple of months, and she wasn’t greeting me.

Anna noticed that her respiratory level was looking a little crazy. We phoned the vet, and they suggested an early evening appointment.

An hour later and we took the decision to rush her in.

Murphie was diagnosed as having a heart condition. We were told that she would not get any better, but we could possibly still have her around to give her some love.

The vet asked us to make an instant decision - did we want to say goodbye to her there and then, or give her the weekend to try and pull through?

Given that I had been playing with her in the garden just 24 hours earlier, I wasn’t prepared to give up on her.

The weekend was then an empty experience. Murphie was under constant care and supervision at the emergency vets.

They were wonderful. We had regular reassuring phone calls. It seemed that she had pulled through and her breathing was under control.

We were allowed to bring her home the following Monday morning.

But everything was about to change. She looked a mess to be honest. I found it hard to recognise the underweight little girl struggling to climb the stairs. Her matted hair was an indication of the internal struggles she was having.

Anna and I found the medication impossible. Murphie needed four pills a day to try and calm her down.

Her pre-cat rescue existence meant that she isn’t a lap cat. We rarely had the opportunity to even hold her.

Trying to pin down the poor thing and pop four pills down her neck was never going to work.

A pre-arranged return to the vet last Friday offered a little more optimism. It was explained that we could carry on giving the drugs mashed up in her food.

Anna was actually excited about buying a pestle and mortar for the first time.

But sadly it hasn’t seen much use.

We had the most amazing day together on Monday - all three of us at home, enjoying the garden and the sunshine.

Murphie was leaping around, and even climbing over the garden wall. This gave us more stress than it gave her. You try telling a cat what she can and can’t do.

The vet encouraged us to allow Murphie to enjoy doing the things that made her happy. I now understand that this was a message to make the most of the time that was left.

I think that we just about did this.

This beautiful, beautiful final day was her downfall. The respiratory levels were back into overdrive on Tuesday morning. I was alone. Anna was in South London.

We have had many tearful conversations about what to do if this situation arose, and one of us was alone.

I kept calm. I was in control.

I rushed Murphie to the vet once again. I detected from the body language straight away where the conversation was heading.

Vets have a very shitty job at times.

The options were once again explained: an injection might calm things down, for now.

For now was the next 24 hours or so.

And then what?

Patch her up again the following morning?

Her breathing was painful to witness. This wasn’t my little girl that I have been running around the house with for the past five years. The noise coming out of her was on par with Anna’s snoring.

I held back the tears - actually, I didn’t - and told the vet that she had been incredibly professional, but I understood perfectly that we can’t keep up this pretence for any longer.

The ‘what next’ options were explained.

Did I want to be there?

Absolutely not.

Did we want the body to bury?

No. I would hate to wake up one morning and see her being disturbed by foxes.

Ashes?

It’s not really my kind of thing.

This dialogue was made less painful having rehearsed it with Anna, sharing our thoughts and wishes.

And then I said my final, personal goodbye. It was the exact same words that I said to Murphie when I first met up.

She didn’t bite me this time.

I was offered an exit through the back door, and not to worry about paying the bill for a month or so.

I wanted to man up and leave the way I came in, but this time with an empty cat carrier.

I remember joking to the lovely receptionist that the final bill of £70 was the exact same amount that we made to the cat rescue folk back in February of 2011.

The receptionist joined me in my tears.

The memories that I have of little Murphie are all there. Sure, I shared a lot of her short life online. But there are endless personal memories that remain with us.

I can stop the tears by thinking about how her first night in the house was spent halfway up the chimney; or the time when she mistook my new settee for a litter tray.

Plus I love the repeat performance of having a stinking poo five years ago when a distinguished village elder came round for an interview. The very same fella was here last month, and yep - little Murphie remembered to stink the whole house out once again.

I now have immense guilt for my weekends away in South London, partly through work, partly through play.

I use to love coming back from London, and then telling Murphie about all of the South London adventures that I had just experienced. She’d give me a look, saying yeah, whatever.

Little Murphie was always an Essex girl.

I am pleased that she came home for the final week. Anna and I couldn’t have carried on with the level of care and medication that was required, just to keep her barely functioning.

The final few hours when we were alone were so powerful and personal. She put hew paws out for me to hold. It had taken over five years to achieve this level of friendship.

I am still thinking what have I done - have I done the right thing?

I have made the decision about the life of another soul. I find that very hard to come to terms with.

We need to pack away all of her reminders that lay throughout the house. Even then I don’t think that she will ever leave this place. My entire home working routine was structured to exist around Murphie World.

There is talk of finding a new friend at the cat rescue. I returned earlier this morning to donate the three months supply of food that we had bought before this summer situation developed.

But there can be no replacement; not yet, anyway.

Farewell, my very, very special friend.