I remember the day Mr Smithers died in my arms. He was still warm and breathing, his legs moving so I knew he was alive. His coat was soft against me and he had the most peaceful expression. I had his head in my lap, and I remember thinking how blue the sky was when I looked away so he couldn't see the tears in my eyes. I ran my hands over his body reassuringly. Not that I felt it, but that I had this notion it was expected of me. Others had gathered, and I wanted to scream "GO AWAY". I felt he was mine, and they had no right to interfere on our most private moment. The moment of his death. I loved Mr Smithers. At moments like this I wondered if I had shown him that enough. And as these thoughts were wrestled in my mind, that's when I noticed, he'd stopped moving. His eyes were open but lifeless and glazed, haunting me forever. In a split second one minute he was there with me, the next he was gone. In my arms was my dead cat, and I lifted him in front of all those spectators, and I hugged him one last time.

Now the thing is, most people think they know all there is to know about cats. I buried Mr Smithers in the same box I'd found him in. It was labelled "Lipton's Teas" and was a very old box of light wood, now dirty, but I lined it with his favourite blanket. He was buried in my garden, out by the trees where he'd loved to climb and play. We'd play his favourite game of hide and seek there, happy memories for the both of us. But you see, this wasn't the first time Mr Smithers had died. He's done it at least two times before, and both times he'd come back to me. It's true, cats have nine lives. Yet not many people get to...