Two summers ago, on a warm afternoon, I walked through the streets of north London, carrying my cat. Dollface was 17 years old, and had been diagnosed with kidney disease. It was severe and late-stage, and there was nothing to be done. The previous night we had lain together on my living room floor while I fed her painkillers and small pieces of prawn. And then it was dawn, and we rose to meet the terrible day.
A Covid spike meant a home visit from the vet was not possible, and Doll hated buses and car journeys, so I had decided that the best way to reach the surgery was on foot. Our mission was at odds with the beauty of the day, but I was glad she got to say goodbye to the world like this: so verdant and fragrant and alive. I wanted her to take it with her, wherever she might go.
