When a Book Is Read.
When we finish reading a wonderful book, we don't call the book dead.
We call it read.
I've been thinking about that this week.
It all started with our cat, Matilda.
Matilda was born in 2012 but arrived at Berry House in 2020 as a stray.
She first announced herself by peering rather cautiously out from inside the yew hedges, as though she’d been studying the house for some time and had finally decided we might just about do.
My daughters immediately named her Matilda.
She raised no formal objection.
Only later, on a routine visit to the vet, did we discover that Matilda was, in fact, a boy.
By then, it was far too late for a rebrand.
The girls weren’t having it.
She was Matilda.
And Matilda she remained.
Entirely comfortable with life... and gravity.
Like many cats, Matilda never really belonged to us.
She simply allowed us the privilege of sharing her world.
She could be wonderfully affectionate when it suited her. At other times she was feisty and independent. She was a little needy, occasionally annoying, quietly mischievous, sometimes playful, always curious and completely convinced that Berry House revolved around her timetable rather than ours.
She would ask for food she'd already been given.
She often appeared exactly where your next footstep was heading. I never understood if this was a hunting instinct, wanting to get there first, or simply a cat's way of reminding humans who was really in charge.
Cats have somehow convinced us that they are independent creatures. It's one of the greatest confidence tricks in history. They don't fetch sticks. They don't guard houses. They rarely acknowledge instructions. Yet somehow we happily provide the catering, the accommodation and the heating.
By the time you've finished living with one, you're no longer the owner.
You're staff.
There was never any doubt whose slippers these really were.
Then, last week, Matilda stopped eating.
At first we hoped it might be something simple.
The vet did everything he reasonably could, but it gradually became clear that her little body was quietly reaching the end of its story.
Home
Gem, Giselle and I took her to the vet together.
None of us wanted to lose her.
But all three of us knew what the kindest decision was.
It wasn't frightening.
Quite the opposite.
The room was calm.
The vet was gentle.
Matilda simply became sleepier and sleepier until, very peacefully, she slipped away.
There was no fear.
No struggle.
Just love.
I'm especially glad my 12 year old daughter Giselle was there with us.
So much of what children learn about death comes from films, where it often arrives with violence, fear, punishment or revenge.
This wasn't like that.
This was peaceful.
This was compassionate.
This was simply the final act of caring for an old friend whose body had reached the end of what it could do.
Perhaps that's something worth understanding while we're still young.
Death, at its kindest, isn't always something to fear.
Sometimes it's simply falling asleep.
And as sleeping had always been one of Matilda’s great talents, it felt, in the end, like the right final gift.
Not an ending full of fear.
Just one last peaceful sleep.
Who among us doesn't enjoy the feeling of drifting peacefully off to sleep?
As strange as it may sound, although it was one of the saddest days we've shared together...
...it was also, in its own quiet way, a love-ly day.
Not because we lost Matilda.
But because we were able to give her one final gift.
A peaceful ending.
Completely at peace.
Since then I've found myself thinking about stories.
Perhaps every life is a book.
Some books are full of adventure.
Others are made up of quiet moments that hardly seem remarkable until years later, when you realise they were the pages you loved most.
Some make you laugh.
Some make you think.
The very best ones somehow do both.
Every book has a final page.
That isn't the tragedy.
The tragedy would be never having had the chance to read it at all.
Why do we fear death, when we instinctively understand that every beautiful thing has an ending?
A symphony reaches its final chord.
A novel reaches its last page.
The sun sets.
We don't mourn these endings.
We applaud them.
They complete the work.
Plays end because the curtain falls.
Books end because every page has been turned.
Neither is a tragedy.
They simply tell us the story has been told.
So no...
Matilda isn’t dead.
Her book has simply been read.
And what a lovely story it was.
Thank you, Matilda...
...for every page.
If Matilda’s story made you think differently about life, endings, or a perspective of your own you’d like to share, I’d love to hear it in the comments below.
