Low life | 12 May 2012

The day after her 96th birthday, and three days before she died, my next-door neighbour told me she wanted Jimmy killed and put in her coffin with her. She knew then she hadn’t long to go. The only thing I could do for her, she said, was put fresh milk in Jimmy’s saucer, making sure that the milk was fresh. She was very anxious about this. She’d hate Jimmy to be offered milk that had gone off.

I was jubilant. Her wanting Jimmy put down was the best news I’d heard for ages. I’d have offered to do it myself with my bare hands if there was even half a chance she’d be amenable to the idea. From the moment he’d turned up on her doorstep, half-starved, his once fluffy grey hair a tangled mat, she’d taken in and served this cat as if he were her sovereign. This otherwise sensible, frugal, vegetarian woman, who survived mainly on chips, fed him chicken breasts, organically reared ones if possible, as many as he could eat, and otherwise devoted her life to catering for his every whim.