There is no experience that matches the pain of a loved one dying in you arms. Spit was a 4 month old ginger smartarse who adopted me after sneaking into the house and hiding under the telly.

He was quite vocal (hence the name) at anyone who came near so I bit the bullet, reached in, and grabbed him. He melted into a purring heap as soon as I held him to my chest and we fell in love.

From then on he used to follow me around like a dog, even into the bath

A few months later I had come home from muay thai an was relaxing on the lounge when I heard the most god-awfull blood chilling scream that still haunts me, and I was halfway to the door before I realized it was my little mate. I ran outside to hear the scream again from the next yard, I jumped the 6 foot fence to be confronted by 2 rotweilers standing over Spit. I flogged those dogs to within an inch of their lives, picked up my mate (he bit me when I touched him so I thought he'd be ok) and lept back over the fence.

He died in my arms without having a mark on him. It tore me up to wash him, he was a clean cat in life and it wasn't right that he be dirty in death.

I am now quite paradoid about Scamp and hate letting her outside.