I fell in love with Kitty as soon as I set eyes on her. Her black beady eyes met mine and she started barking like crazy.
We didn’t name her for three weeks, when we realised that our Bernese Mountain Dog was more like a cat than anything.

She seemed to know when I was sad, and would bring my teddy bear in from wherever I had thrown it last time, then sit with me for hours, listening to my sobs.

She passed away on my lap six months ago with cancer of the liver. We took her to the vet and I cried the whole way; she looked so confused. Kitty died with her eyes closed, and the night before we held a huge party for her: all my friends loved her to pieces. She ate a whole chicken.

I still miss her. We got a new puppy called Bonnie, but it isn’t the same. She doesn’t lie by the fire looking at me, or find my teddy when I cry. She prefers my brother to me.
I wish I had some piece of Kitty, besides her mangled toys. Instead, I stare at the pictures of us, scattered across the walls and cry for my best friend.