For the fifth time that morning the little cat pushed her head repeatedly against the old man’s hand in a vain attempt at coaxing it into life.

For ten years the lazy tuxedo had wanted for nothing. She had been doted upon to the point of obsession. Her bed had four posts, dinner was always catch of the day… and her ears were the subject of endless poggling.

Leaping up onto George’s sallow chest, Tiddles nuzzled tenderly against his cold face and gave it a lick.

“Hmmmmm,” she mused with a purr, “I think I’ll start with the face meat.”