Oh.

Some moments, scents, tastes, songs instantly invoke nostalgia, bringing back crystal-sharp memories of a wonderful holiday; or a happy time in your life; or a close friend whom you no longer see for whatever reason. What’s the opposite of a nostalgia cue, I wonder? The fear of the unknown? Or the certainly of a situation that you just have to accept?

I had one of these flash-forwards this afternoon when making my peanut butter. Raffles had been lurking around the kitchen island all morning, drinking in the kitchen smell of roasted peanuts; watching intently as I placed the jars in the oven to sterilise, as I took the spatula from the middle drawer that would ease the rich, peanutty liquid into the waiting jars. Raffles is very keen on the movements of this spatula, for Raffles LOVES peanut butter. And he knows that I always let him lick the spatula.

On Tuesday our vet confirmed that Raffles’s cancerous tumour (fibrosarcoma, melanoma, spindle cell carcinoma, no-one is completely sure) has returned and the cancer has spread to his lymph node. The only remedy is to gouge the tumour out as it recurs but I really don’t want to put him through a series of increasingly aggressive surgeries, and for what? It’s already spread. Chemotherapy would extend his life for a few months, perhaps, but at nearly 13, we think he now needs to live in peace, enjoying every moment. It’s our job to keep him happy and comfortable for as long as that is possible.

As I proffered the spatula this afternoon it suddenly dawned on me that this might be the last time he gets to lick the spoon. He did it with relish and perhaps there’s a lesson in there somewhere for all of us.