Yes, requiescas in pace, old friend.

          Dear Kanga died this month, at the age of 15. In the end cancer was added to her problems, and she declined very rapidly. The tumour caused pressure on her brain, and on her last visit to the vet she couldn't even recognise us. It seemed better to have her put to sleep rather than for her to spend at most a few more weeks of misery. But somehow having asked for that final injection leaves a feeling of guilt, and I shall never forget her drawing her last breath on the vet's table. All of her human companions shed quite a few tears that day.

          We adopted Kanga and her sister Roo as worthless mongrels - mostly a mixture of American Shorthair and Abyssinian. Their names derive from Winnie the Pooh, of course, even though they were not mother and son. We decided that the one who showed least fear as they were being driven to their new home should be the one called Kanga.

          Between them Roo and Kanga shared a good deal of beauty and brain, but Roo had most of the brain and Kanga most of the beauty, a grey tabby with green eyes.

          What she lacked in intellect she more than made up for in affection. She would purr as soon as you looked at her, and was always ready to jump on your lap and rub her cheek against yours. We can all remember times when we woke in the morning to find her sleeping peacefully with her paws wrapped around a wrist and her head cushioned on a hand.

          If death is not in fact the end of everything, then Kanga deserves the best of whatever more there is for cats, and all her humans would love to greet her again some time and some place.