I think of the days of our cat Bella's death as hot and fuzzy, black with her fur, prickly, salty. Can I write about this? When the nurses took her into the other room to put a catheter in her leg she was already very weak, but she turned to look right back over the vet nurse's arms and straight into my eyes. Why would I write about this? It was the middle of winter. N stood beside me. They returned her, still wrapped in the green crocheted blanket, to my arms. She relaxed into the cuddle as soon as she was back there, as though we were at home. She was so weak by then. The nurses had already told us what to expect, and gave us time like that until we were ready.

What I regret is that as they moved towards us with the injection they were making noises, as though to calm her down, but it was the noises that were disturbing. They were tense, tutting and cooing. They said 'talk to her, tell her you're there', so I did, but that was not what I wanted. I wanted to be silent with her. She knew I was there, we were together. She knew N was standing beside us and we were safe. But they made noises, and it was disturbing. She didn't wriggle or startle but she was aware, wary of the sounds. Those moments should have been peaceful, they could have come quietly and she would have felt more safe.

Once they put the injection in through the catheter it was instant, her heart just stopped and she was limp. Her bladder released through the blanket and I lifted her up to the vet's table so that we wouldn't be totally covered in wee.

Then my memory is a little bit fuzzy. I had another blanket with me, really a large piece of soft velveteen fabric, and I'm not sure if we wrapped her in it there or kept her in the crocheted blanket until we got to Mum's. I remember how her body kept its warmth as I held it against me, and how naturally it moved into the various positions of her life - snuggled against me as we drove, or curled in a circle, which is how we wrapped and buried her.

I unwrapped her so that Mum could kiss her goodbye.

That morning I had sat with her on the front steps and we watched the birds on the front lawn. It was drizzly and she was so happy to be out there, watching, alert, from the blanket in my arms. I let her stand for a little while on the footpath but she didn't move, just swayed, seemed unsure what to do, so I took her back in my arms and we watched. For those last couple of days all she really seemed to want was to be held. I sat for hours on end, just sat with her in the armchair, moving as little as possible, and then laid her between us in bed at bedtime. N brought whatever I needed. I tried a couple of times to take her to the toilet or to water or food when I thought she'd be ready, but actually she complained when I did this. She was, despite her great stillness, still capable of standing and taking steps when she wanted. I wasn't sure until she showed us, but she could still initiate movement, and so I learned to just wait for that and help her to her bowl or litter then. Otherwise we just sat together, sharing warmth through hours with no greater need. I felt I was storing something for the years ahead. The room grew dark, the room grew light. We were together.