Today, I was sad to learn that a friend's cat who I'd been popping by to feed and keep company for most of the week died last night.
Inevitably, my first thought was 'was it my fault?'. I knew I hadn't done anything wrong, and there was no suggestion that the owner thought I had, but I still couldn't help but feel responsible. The cat had a heart condition for which she received medicine every day (cunningly hidden in a bowl of tuna), which she knocked back all week like a little trouper. Her twin sister who lived with her is slightly more predisposed to be friendly, but if you settled on the sofa and ignored her she'd eventually come to you, and roll onto her back for purry tummy tickles; I'm much the same myself.
It's such a shame that she's gone. I hope her sister won't be too lonely or confused and her owner isn't too upset. On writing this while travelling on the tube, I absent-mindedly flicked a cat-hair from my jacket, before realising there was a 50% chance it was hers; why is life so bittersweet?