Many thanks to all of you who so kindly wrote to say you were sorry at my loss when Lucy died - it's greatly appreciated. And I loved some of the stories you sent me about your animals, especially Kayman, who stopped off for a Big Mac on the way to meet his maker.

The DH and I are feeling much better now, after catching up on sleep and scanning old pictures of Lucy that remind us more of the fantastic life she led rather than the manner of her death. We were partly traumatised, I think, by the fact that she didn't die easily, and that people turned up to view the house (we live in an historic building and tourists sometimes visit), immediately after she died when I was in no fit state to talk to anyone. 

It was also sad clearing out the house because all her 'things' were to do with her illness - steps onto the bed, medicines, syringes and whatnot. She had no bed in the house because she basically lived in the upper barn and only came in at night, when she would snuggle up with us, often under the covers. 

Lucy was born at the farm up the road, so she never knew any other life than here - hunting, stalking, lying around in the sun, climbing up the vine to be with us at night, or snoozing in the porch roof up above our heads. The picture above is of her on our bedroom windowsill, ready to make her descent.

She'd only been here a week or two when she and her brother killed a couple of young rats, and she continued to get a kill or two each day for the rest of her life. She preferred prey to catfood, and in her last week, was fiercesome in defence of a fresh dead mouse I found on the driveway and brought her to play with - instead she wolfed it straight down. 

So, we will simply miss her, like we miss the others - the other four cats that are buried in the orchard, and to whom we say good morning when we walk around the garden.

I haven't blogged for a few days and will probably not blog for a few more.

Lucy has died. We had her euthanised on Sunday afternoon at 4.00pm. 

As every pet owner knows, there are few things that make you feel so horribly, stupidly, helplessly impotent as watching a beloved animal die. The fact that you almost always have to make the decision yourself is the worst. In the end, putting them out of their misery is the last act of kindness you can show them. 

I wish this got easier over time, but in all honesty I think it gets worse. Lucy is the fifth cat we have lost. One we found dead, one died naturally when we couldn't get a vet to him, and the other two we had euthanised - one with heart failure and another with a brain tumour. But I feel worse about Lucy than any of the others so far.

Perhaps it's because I have nursed her for three and a half months, knowing that every day of that was precious and that we would lose her eventually. It is like watching the lights of an oncoming train and being unable to get off the track.

As her mobility decreased, we made steps for her, and memory-foam beds, and raised feeding stations, changed her medication for stronger pain relief, economised on our own food to pay for better food for her.

We developed an incredibly close bond with her as she became more dependent - she was happy to be carried upstairs and down (we didn't want to let her walk in case she broke a leg), and to be placed outside in the sunshine. She carried on bravely to the end, hunting butterflies and eating the other cats' discarded mice.

We saw her through several surgeries, and two attacks from our other cats. When she wanted something, she let us know it in no uncertain terms, and daily she became more kissy and snuggly and purry, cuddling into my arms every night. 

On Sunday she couldn't speak to me and didn't want to be touched, and I knew she had had enough. She was euthanised 40 minutes later and since then, the DH and I have both felt physically sick.

We have buried her in the orchard, under this pile of stones - not just a memorial, but a practical measure to prevent next-door's dog digging her up like he did with the last one. 

I will be back in a day or two, when I'm feeling more compos mentis. 

For all those who have asked about the health of Lucy, my cat with cancer, many thanks.

She is still with us, and very well, despite a mishap on Monday. She was bitten by one of our other cats, Scoop, and her tumour - now the size of a small melon, burst. 

I ran downstairs at the sound of caterwauling and found Lucy lapping at a hole in her side as a tide of fluid fairly poured out of her - not a pretty sight. 

However, once I'd realised that she was only losing sera, with a little blood mixed in, rather than pure blood, I stopped panicking. The DH and I rushed her to the vet, and kept her calm while the vet squeezed about a litre of fluid out of the tumour. 

She's now home with antibiotics, and is sitting outside in the sun, happy as a clam. The wound has released much of the pressure on the tumour and she is actually more mobile and comfortable, so strangely enough, this may have prolonged her life.

It was a mixed start, then, for my birthday, LOL. But the rest of it improved considerably, with presents of cake and chocolate, books, koto music and jasmine tea - and at the end of the day, a job offer. In case anyone gives a toss, my pressies were:

* Home-made spice cake and Thornton's Special Selection from friends.

* Okazura's Book of Tea, Blue and White Japan by Amy Katoh, Japan Country Living by Amy Katoh, Lullaby for the Moon (koto music) and Music for Zen Mediation by Tony Scott, from my sister.

* Japan Style by Angelika Taschen and Japanese Style by Suzanne Slesin, from myself(!)

* and Jasmine pearl China White tea from Whittard's, a new glass teapot for my new tea, The Barefoot Home and Carole King's Tapestry album, plus some extra downloads of my favourite music, from the DH. 

Most of these presents I chose myself, being of a practical bent (reviews of the books and music will follow), but of course, the best present of all is to still have Lucy with us, which at 10.00 that morning I didn't think we would.

Ouf, what a week.

As any animal-lover might guess, the reason I haven't blogged for a week is feline. I have been run off my feet looking after our cat Lucy, following her cancer operation. 

In the end, sadly, it is not good news. The operation, we hoped, would buy her some time - as little as 66 days but perhaps as much as a year. But it is not to be.

After returning home, recovering well, hobbling gamely round the place and being spoilt rotten with chicken and omega-3 oils six times a day, she put on weight and developed better fur than I ever remember. But then she suddenly went lame again and seemed terribly tired. My husband had a feel around her scar, which was healing beautifully and he found what everyone dreads - a lump. Metastases already, after only 10 days. 

We called the vet once more and asked him (our normal vet is away) to come to the house, thinking we would have to put her down because of the pain she was now clearly in. We passed another miserable night on this bloody rollercoaster, stroking and petting her. But when he arrived, we were precipitate, he said. No wonder she's tired, he said - the tumour is dislocating her shoulder. A shot of cortisone might kill the pain.

And so it has, for the moment. Two hours after the injection, she was giving me an ear-bashing about the parlous cuisine (kitten Whiskas is evidently no longer suitable), and zipping round the bedroom batting her toys about. She was so improved today, after her second dose, that we even allowed her outside for an hour under supervision, where she lay in the sun, preening herself and picking up messages on the wind.

So, onward and upward. I'll just keep giving her the tablets and making the most of her little furry presence while she's still here - the sight of her with the full sun on her white fur is one I thought I'd never see again.

I read, incidentally, a great piece of advice about sick cats, called the Five Ps: playing, purring, preening, peeing and pooing. When there are signs that these are deteriorating, it's time to euthanise, so for Lucy, that time is clearly not yet.