Her tale is told,
Her song is sung;
To grief we’re sold:
What’s done is done.
There was was never a sweeter or more loving cat than Peep. She would have been 16 in May. But she was ill beyond the power of any medical treatment, and today we had her put to sleep. We tried everything else first.
Everyone you love dies, unless you die first. The only alternative is not to love; but we can’t live that way.
God help us, how we’ll miss her.