That's what I called him. It would have seemed wrong, somehow, not to give him a name - the very least I could give him. The vet said he was so far gone, he probably felt very little pain and giving him an IV injection would only be a form of torture.

He died two days later, never having moved from where he curled up the previous night. He's buried next to Don Pilichy under the workshop window onto the garden.

Funny thing is, a few hours after I buried him, a very healthy, young male brown tabby turned up, and has now tried to come into the house several times, much to Timoteo's fury. Think I'm goin' to get me a dawg...