Madge

My little cat is on her last wobbly legs.  She's just a dusty bag of bones covered in raggedy threadbare fur and eye-watering patches of bald pink skin.  84 in human years.  She shudders and flinches and staggers.  She shits on the floor and drags her scrawny arse across the laminate, leaving ribbon streaks of poo. She pukes up painfully, all froth and yellow.  She looks demented and confused, her wild angry eyes sinking deeper and deeper into her tiny skull.  

Madge is having tests.  Very expensive, time-consuming, unsettling tests.  But really what can they do with an 84 year old?  

I just wish she would just die on the sofa, curled up in my lap, with the sun on her pretty face.