No More Cigarettes

Vince Bunnyman misses Cigarettes.
He’d first gotten Cigarettes when she was a kitten.
Just 6 weeks old.
She was named Cigarettes because his partner, Celia, had left the house on her daily outing to the shops to buy cigarettes, but instead, came back with a kitten.
Along the way she’d passed a newly opened pet shop and couldn’t help but notice Cigarettes in the window.
Cigarettes was alone.
Cigarettes was the last of her litter.
The runt.
The outcast.
Forlorn, adorable and mischievously playful all within the few brief moments that Celia spent looking at her through the glass window.
Cigarettes was a constant source of joy for both Vince and Celia.
She would swat their empty packets of Peter Jackson’s along the hardwood floors of their house for hours.
With its grey packaging, it was the closest thing she had to a mouse.
Cigarettes knew when the last of the packet was being lit.
She would stare Vince down with built up anticipation whilst he took his first draw and then, without looking, throw the packet to the far side of the room.
Cigarettes would then give chase, pouncing on the defenceless packaging like the most ferocious of her feline ancestors.
When Celia made her and Vince’s favourite meal, Nachos, Cigarettes would do whatever it took to get a delicious mouthful of her homemade Guacamole.
Eventually they set aside a small bowl especially for Cigarettes to enjoy whilst they ate their meal.
It was the only way they could eat in peace.
During the warmer months, in the fading sunlight, Vince would sit outside in their small courtyard with Cigarettes and glass of his favourite Shiraz.
A welcome ritual after a long day at work.
In winter he would sip on a cup of Earl Grey in front of the heater with Cigarettes curled up on his lap.
Peaceful time.
Reflection time.
Vince and Cigarettes time.
Cigarettes died two weeks ago.
The Vet said that it was lung cancer.
Passive smoking.
Vince and Celia have not smoked since.
They will always miss Cigarettes.