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. Far from appearing grateful, however, or humbled by his unexpected good fortune, Jimmy went about the place with the air of a spoiled and sulky child, and showed her not the slightest affection. He understood now that she was dying, she said, because he was acting ‘huffily’ and was more ‘off’ with her than usual. ‘He knows, and he doesn’t want anything to do with me now, the rotten beggar,’ she panted.
On my way out, I noticed Jimmy glowering at me from the top of the stairs. He knew I detested him; that I was not impressed in the slightest by his regal bearing; that given half a chance I’d put a toe up his backside.
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