Chavo, March 14 1999- November 22 2005

1. It’s been a tough day, people of blogland, and the mantra ‘it was only a cat’ hasn’t helped none.

2. He was a wee fluff ball when he got him as a kitten. On the train back from Wimbledon, he was poised; poised but cold. I took him out of the cat carrier and held him inside my jumper. He stopped shaking then.

3. ‘What’s his name?’ a couple of blondes asked. ‘Gustave’, we replied. ‘Good stuff?’ they guffawed. ‘Can we have some?’ It was Gustave -later nicknamed Chavo- because J and I agreed on Flaubert and Malher.

4. Chavo had a good cat’s life. Six and a half years of it. He had a few fisticuffs with the moggy from next door -the one we call Sid because he’s vicious; he also had to move house once, a traumatising event after which he hid behind the washing machine for 24 hours. Not bad.

5. Over the last week, Chavo grew a fat belly. So fat that he was getting stuck between the bars on the staircase. We grew worried. I told him I’d take him to the nice vet lady and forgave him in advance for getting explosive diarrhoea (his favourite vet surgery trick.)

6. Gustave was dying of congenital cysts wrapped around his liver. They had been causing his liver to bleed, which was filling up his belly. I had a choice of taking him home post-surgery and watch him die within days, or two weeks at most, or not letting him wake up after the op. I didn’t think it fair on him to have to be in pain just for the sake of us saying good-bye. So we never did.

7. It was only a cat gorgeous, sweet, lazy fluffball.

8. Sorry about the mood, bloglanders. But this really sucks donkey balls. Hairy ones.