***

Katie left us tonight. The heat we have been enduring this week was, I think, the tipping point. We have had days on end of temperatures reaching 43C (111F) and above, and not going below 27C (80F) overnight. Until yesterday, Katie seemed to be coping with this, going out in the morning for a sniff round the back yard, before coming in for her breakfast and lying in front of the cooler for the day. We don't have air-conditioning at home; we can't afford it. We do have two evaporative coolers, but they are only meant for small rooms, and struggle when the heat hits the mid 30s, let alone the mid 40s.

This morning, when I got up, I heard Katie complaining – and she's always been a vocal cat, whether pleased or not – but she was plainly uncomfortable, at least. When I came out to the lounge, where she sleeps, I saw she'd vomited her dinner some time during the night. She seemed a bit happier when the fan was put on, but was still clearly having trouble with the heat.

I rang Mum twice during the day. The first time, it sounded hopeful; Katie had drunk some milk and water, and wasn't complaining. But a couple of hours later, she had lost it all and was lying crying.

There was no denying it now. She was suffering in this heat, and if she couldn't keep water down, it would not be long before her kidneys failed. I couldn't imagine that, with her advanced cancer, there was anything Nick, our vet, could, or should, do, other than release her. I rang the clinic, was told he'd be in in fifteen minutes and that he'd call me. Then I spent forty-five tense and unhappy minutes waiting for his call; he'd been caught with a surgical patient who needed urgent attention. When we spoke, he mentioned that the clinic was caring for several pets suffering heat prostration – these were healthy animals, but were on saline drips. If healthy animals were suffering, it's no wonder that my little girl had been pushed past endurance.

I asked if I could bring her around this evening. I have to take her there carried in a shopping jeep, since we don't drive. It's only a fifteen-minute walk, but I wasn't going to take her out in the full daytime heat, even for a one-way trip. But Nick very kindly said they had so few appointments that day, that he'd put aside a time and come around. We arranged for him to be here at about 5.15, which would, we hoped, allow me enough time to get home. Melbourne's under-maintained trains have been breaking down or being cancelled in this heatwave (as happens every summer; the network is appallingly run) to the tune of hundreds every day.

These calls were made at about 2.00. I didn't feel at all like staying at work after that, so (with my boss's okay – he's a decent man) I headed for an earlier train. I was lucky: both the tram to Caulfield Station and the train itself were on time. I rang my sister, Joan, to tell her Katie was leaving us, and she said that she was leaving work too – the power had failed there, so there was no point in staying. She said she would drop in on the way home.

I got home at about 3.45 to find Mum distressed, and Katie on the kitchen floor, obviously very ill. She was gasping, her eyes were dilated, and she was crying out. I didn't realise it immediately, but her heart was failing. It's probably what was happening all day, now that we look back. I was horrified to see how bad she was; not because there was any hope of her staying with us, but because she was in pain.

Joan arrived about two minutes after I did. She recognised heart failure. It was how her Lucy-dog left this world. I didn't know what it was, but I knew Katie needed help immediately. It was only a matter of minutes before Joan had rung the clinic to say we would bring Katie around straight away. There was no way in the world I was going to wait another ninety minutes or so for her to be put out of her pain. She convulsed as we gathered her onto a towel to carry her, and a minute later, as I sat in the back of the car, gave one big kick. I didn't realise it at the time, but she had gone – died in my arms, the only one of my cats to do so. She had crossed over without even leaving her earthly home, without having to go into the clinic. I realised it a minute or so later as we drove out, when I saw she was not breathing. We had to take her to the clinic anyway, since they are arranging for her cremation. We took her in, and Nick checked for a heartbeat. There was none, of course. My little girl had gone, on the thirteenth anniversary of the day we brought her home as a three-month old, insufferably cute, self-assured kitten, from the Lort Smith Animal Hospital. (The “insufferable” tag was how our other cats would probably have described her.)

Naturally I was not in the frame of mind to be really aware of Louis's presence while this happened. I knew he was there, though I couldn't sense him. He had said while we were on the way home that he wouldn't leave my side. I asked him later if she jumped into his arms. She did; that final kick sent her to him. She's at home now – her real home, her permanent home. Louis is with her, settling her in, though it doesn't sound like she needs much help. She's been sniffing around and making the place hers, and has had some sort of fish for dinner. She's enjoying the only sort of heat we like – that from a fireplace, and she's curled up on the blue velvet rug I saw Louis trying to arrange for her the other week. I miss her, and will miss her more as the days pass. I'll miss her smug little expression, looking out from lowered eyelids; her silent “mh” which hardly rates as a miaow; her squeaks as she'd run indoors for her dinner; her habit of sitting watching me eat breakfast; her fondness for sleeping on top of me in the cool months, while I'd watch television; the silkiness of her fur, and her sheer prettiness. But as much as the missing is the relief for her. She's free of pain and illness. She's young again, and healthy, and will never be otherwise. She has her magnificent long tail again! She has a wonderful home, a garden that offers vast possibilities for exploring, and at least two admirers in the persons of Louis and Richelieu. And I will see her every time I cross over for a nighttime visit to my beloved husband, Katie's bon papa.

Many blessings to you,

Jude