Oblivious though she surely was to the idea of a dirty protest, this is nevertheless what Chelsea, my cat of 17 years, performed on the last night of her life. She had never taken to our daughter, who was born nine months previously, put out by her usurper in the way of Big Brother contestants when a shiny newcomer arrives. Clearly, she wanted to make her feelings felt. And she did, in the baby’s bedroom, while we slept, with an emphatic deposit.
In the previous weeks, Chelsea had been a shadow of her former self. She had lost a lot of weight, her features had grown pointed, her spine like a xylophone, ribs like harp strings. She could no longer manage the stairs.
