King of the road

I guess I first met him in 1998, or thereabouts. He and his brother both. Wary at first, skittish, unsure. And fair enough. When you live on the streets, you never know who you can trust. But through a mutual acquaintance our friendship grew. Sure, he had some issues with our cat, but he was fond of me and Red. We would give him a meal from time to time, and he would often come running to greet us on our return from work.

When we moved away from London, we made a promise to him. Not directly to him, granted, but it was a promise to ourselves to give him and his brother a home. The new situation in which we found ourselves meant it was less practical than we had hoped to live up to our promise, and it took a further couple of years before the pair were finally given an indoor home (though they'd had pretty decent outdoor shelter before that, it must be said).

The last time I saw him was just a few months ago, but we were both out of context. Although I recognized him, my sudden appearance after so long away proved difficult for him to compute. For a moment I thought I saw a glimmer of something just before he went out of my sight, but perhaps that was just wishful thinking.

Yesterday afternoon, he took his last breath. Undiagnosed illness had taken its toll, and there was nothing that could be done. Maybe as a result of all those tough years, who knows? He had it about as good as any stray could, but it still can't have been easy. I shed a couple of tears last night, remembering the white tip at the end of his tail, the black of his nose, and the way he would bop heads with me. He'll be missed.

Bye, Smirnoff.