KILLING KITTY

One summer’s day I found myself thinking, “What will happen to Kitty when she gets really old?” She was about 14, and in the past week I’d noticed her breath was super smelly; however, I held off taking her to the vet because her previous instances of pungent breath had incurred eye-wateringly expensive dental work. In her dotage, I wondered, would Kitty look mangy? Would she become incontinent? Would Gavin, my cat-intolerant husband, insist she be euthanised?

I met Kitty 14 years ago, when Gav and I bought our first house. On the day we moved in, she popped over from next door for a visit. A cat lover, I was delighted; Gav, a cat-allergy sufferer, not so much. So we stuck to clandestine pats on the back porch.

I called her Kitty, because that’s what you call a cat whose name you don’t know. Later, when we met her owner, she told us Kitty’s real name was… Lena.

I kept calling her Kitty.

Kitty visited so often that when our neighbour had to move house, she offered me Kitty for adoption. (Gav was placated with a subscription to Sky Sports.) Now was my