The Christmas Bed

Last Christmas, Z and K bought Pepe a new cat bed. It was a round, fluffy thing – a padded doughnut with high sides to keep him warm. Pepe was always Z’s favourite, partly because he knew it and partly because he was the sort of cat who sat with his tongue sticking out, chased his own tail, and sat on her duvet begging for crusts when she ate toast in bed.

Pepe inspected the bed carefully. He sniffed it, walked around it, then jumped back onto his chair. On Boxing Day, he looked at it again, once or twice, but never quite stepped inside. His sister, Cannella, refused to acknowledge it at all, affronted that she hadn’t been bought one of her own. G and N gave her a cuddle and said they’d buy her one after the festive period.

The next day, Pepe wasn’t himself. He didn’t want to eat. His beautiful black coat lost its shine. We took him to the vet. He’s fine. Just keep an eye on him.

The following day he wouldn’t drink. He hid under the sofa. We went back. Blood tests. We paid extra for immediate results. Everything looked normal.

In the middle of the night he cried out in pain and crawled onto G’s bed. We rang the emergency vet. Bring him in.

Before we left, we FaceTimed Z and K who were away in Europe. Z sobbed, telling him how much she loved him, saying goodbye.

We drove through the dark with Pepe wrapped in a blanket in G’s arms. We waited outside the surgery, ringing the bell, banging on the door. The vet took one look at him and told us his heart was failing. He died moments later, still loved, still ours.

We returned home in silence, faces tight with dried tears. I sat with Pepe on my lap, unwilling to let him go.

The vet’s report arrived. There was nothing anyone could have done.

The bed went into the cupboard with the Christmas lights and baubles, where it stayed all year. Not hidden. Just forgotten. Whilst we continued to catch glimpses of Pepe if we turned too quickly.

At the beginning of December, we discovered it under the boxes of decorations and decided it should go to the charity shop. Someone else’s cat could use it. We put it by the front door with a pile of decluttered items, making room for the excess of Christmas.  

That afternoon, Cannella got into it.

No hesitation. No ceremony. She stepped inside, turned once, and curled up – making the exact shape her brother never had.

I caught my breath. The pain of Pepe’s death hit me as if a year hadn’t passed.

Cannella looked smaller in it than he would have. Or maybe that was imagination. She tucked her paws beneath herself in a tortoiseshell ball and slept.

Cats don’t give meaning to things. We do. To her, the bed only meant warmth and comfort, not a tangle of memories and hope. It was poignant. But it also felt right.

When she woke, she stretched, yawned, and stepped out without a backward glance. She went to the window. The day carried on.

The bed didn’t go to the charity shop.

It wasn’t Pepe’s bed anymore.

This Christmas, it became Cannella’s.