Too right. I'd have danced on my mother's grave except it was pretty deep and not filled in - and my siblings and cousins would have gladly buried me with her if I'd done them the favour of humping down onto her overpriced corpse-container. They were trying to work out how to do me out of my share of the inheritance before she was pronounced dead.

But my heart still hurts when I remember my big strong half-wild Tomcat, shark teeth and razor claws, so fast and sharp you didn't know he'd slashed you until the blood stated dripping.

He grew to trust me, and when he was on his back, slashing in chaotic anger, I could ignore his claws, talk gently to him and kiss his nose, and he'd hug me, paws around my neck. He lived a reasonable number of cat years, but not in my eyes. He was still fast and playful as a kitten until his last year, when a strange disease ate away his face and his paws.

He lay beside my computer for a year, on a cushioned bench we fixed up for him, so he was always being cuddled or stroked, and was carried everywhere he wanted/needed to go. One night he started running in his sleep and I stroked him until he quieted, and next time I stroked him he was cold, and gone.

Pets love us and give us all they have. They deserve our grief.