The day my mum brought home Lula, I was convinced that this was as good as life could get. She was nothing more than a miniscule ball of white fluff with a pathetic little meow for a voice and a disproportionately large tail, yet I adored her instantly.

As she was mine, she was my responsibility but, being little over nine years old at the time meant that I was not the best owner and it was not uncommon for Lula to go a whole day without being fed. It was only at night, just before I retired to my bed that I would suddenly realise and feel consumed by guilt, filling up the bowl to overflowing point with her favourite treats as a ploy for her forgiveness. Although I never once deserved it, she always gave it to me and would soon start rumbling like a car engine – a comic sound that hugely contradicted her tiny frame.

We looked after each other in a way. She rarely liked to be anywhere except with me and insisted on accompanying me on my daily walk down the road to and from school: she was a fantastic babysitter. What she did not have such an aptitude for, however, was crossing the road. Dancing in front of cars as she did, it wasn't long before she was on her ninth life and she was the subject of many worried thoughts that plagued my mind when she wasn’t by my side.

On the second of May, my worst fears became a reality. Mum told me that there was still a chance of her living but both of her back legs would have to be amputated. She then went on to say that there was a second option. Did I really want her to live a restricted life inside and never be able to walk me to school again? Would I be able to bear her being a pale shadow of her former self for the rest of her life? The answer seemed obvious, but children are selfish and I was no exception. I had a long list of counterargument which included:
1.
I would love her exactly as I had before
2.
I could carry her to school with me.
3.
Even if she was unhappy, she would forgive me because she always did.
4.
Besides, I would miss her otherwise.

Thus ensued a battle between my heart and my head. But no matter how much I tried to assure myself that it would be no different, the thought of my white fluffy ball of a best friend being sad and unable to continue her favourite pastimes, such as chasing me up the stairs and catching butterflies in summer, outweighed everything else. And despite shedding the odd tear every now and then as I venture down the road that we once ambled along together, seven years later, I now know for certain that I made the right decision.