Milo

Milo had the kind of face that could melt even the sternest mood. Those big, soulful eyes and that tiny little tongue that poked out just so. It was impossible not to smile when he was around. He wasn’t loud or flashy, but he had a quiet way of making himself the centre of everything, just by being there. He’d follow you from room to room like a shadow with fur and if you sat still too long, you’d feel the soft thud of him curling up beside you. A comforting weight. A presence. A friend. He had his routines. Up with the kettle in the morning, a quick spin on the tiles and a dramatic sigh before settling in to observe the day unfold. He didn’t ask for much. Just a lap, a bit of toast and all your attention. Now the corners of the house feel a touch too still, the silence more noticeable. But we feel him everywhere. In the warm patch of sun, in the shuffle of slippers, in the quiet moments when we still expect to hear that little tip-tap on the floor. Sleep peacefully, Milo. You were one of a kind. Roger