After a few months of deterioration, the family cat we’ve had for 18 years of our lives had to be put to sleep.

In my naivety, I thought I’d be prepared for my cat dying. After all, I had suffered the loss of my younger brother Elliot in 2013.

I wrongly assumed, having gone through such a traumatic event in my life, I might cope with this situation better than most.

I’d been able to convince myself I’d been equipped with some grief first aid kit.

But here I am, utterly and devastatingly heartbroken that my family cat is no more.

I recognise the reason I’m so upset is that my family cat had become a living, breathing connection to my late brother.

He was a physical being who had experienced the love and kindness my brother Elliot had given to this world.

In some strange way, it feels like a part of my brother has died again too.

We got the cat when we were both children.

We’d begged my mum to let us have a proper pet, working our way through a list of suitable candidates for months on end. From rats and chinchillas to bearded dragons and geckos, each week would bring a new creature we’d have to convince our parents we could take care of, getting out books from the school library to show we’d done our own research.

Our mum quickly shut down most of our sales pitches, including the reptiles after reading that they’d need to eat live insects which could escape their containers, infesting the family home.

Having had cats most of her life, our mum proposed the idea of getting a kitten.

As my brother and I were both desperate for any living, breathing creature that existed outside of a fishbowl, we agreed to this.

A few days later, my mum found out about a local woman whose cat had unexpectedly had a litter of kittens. She was selling them for ten pound and wanted them gone as soon as possible, so despite only visiting to have a look at them, we ended up taking home a blue eyed, big-bellied kitten in a cardboard crisp box that same day. We called into the pet shop on the way back home, buying last minute supplies for the new arrival to our family.

I remember waking up the next morning and rushing to the kitchen to see our new kitten, overwhelmed with excitement that he belonged to us. We’d often argue over who would get to hold him before school.

My bother loved that little cat with all his heart, and there was no doubt in anyone’s minds that Charlie was my brother’s cat.

As he grew older, our cat took a distinct disliking to most human beings, except for Elliot who he would allow to place on his shoulders like a parrot. Charlie would sit up there graciously, watching the world.

They’d follow each other around the garden in the summer months, the cat becoming my brother’s loyal shadow.

They’d formed a strong bond, this boy and his mischievous, slightly unhinged cat.

When my brother died, our cat seemed to mourn for him. He’d pace the hallway, meowing loudly outside my brother’s room. We’d often see him sitting peacefully by my brother’s urn in the garden.

In many ways, Charlie had become a living memorial to my brother after his passing.

Although I wasn’t naive enough to believe a cat could live forever, I hoped he might stay around for as long as he possibly could.

I didn’t want to believe his bones would grow frail and his eyes might start to fail him, that one day he would grow so old that he’d no longer exist in his physical form.

The cat had been there for so long, the only constant in our suffocating grief.

I knew the day Charlie had to be put to sleep would be hard, that it would make my brother’s death feel even more real.

I felt it would be a cruel reminder of the pain we have to carry with us in life, that loss is so devastatingly permanent.

It’s difficult to wrap your head around death, even when you’ve experienced it in the most painful of forms. How can you begin to comprehend the fact that life is so fragile? How can you begin to understand how someone can be so deeply intertwined in your life, but be ripped away like the roots of an old tree? I’ve often wonder how a forest continues to grow, despite the destruction it has faced.

It feels poetic that my cat died a few days before the anniversary of Elliot’s birthday, especially as he was the only human he seemed to care for in his short life.

Despite our differences, I grew to love that awkward cat. He’d mellowed a bit in his later years, often choosing to curl up beside me on the sofa on an evening, close enough that you could hear his gentle purring.

I think I loved him more because he’d grown around the best of my beautiful brother, shaped by the gentle love of someone who didn’t care he was difficult, who just loved him for what he was.

He was imprinted with my brother’s kind soul, a constant reminder of the compassion Elliot had for the things he loved and cared for most in his life.

That cat represented some of the warmest memories I have of my late brother.

And that’s why I’m not ashamed to feel my cat’s death more deeply than most people would expect someone to feel.

Our cat was evidence my brother lived this life, that he was loved and is mourned for.