EXCHANGE INTERFACE

Dara the cat was put to sleep this morning, UK time. (Saturday PM in Australia.)



She was 19 years old, ancient and beloved, a grand old dame of cats in stately black and white. Petted and fussed over, with nothing too good for her as she grew old and arthritic and crotchety.

This was a cat with absolute chill. She took foreign beasts and vet visits with cool lassaiz-faire, and would sit on the back ledge of the stepdad's car as he drove her to the vet, surveying the traffic with interest.

We once piled cookbooks on her, and she just lay there - the ultimate 'dolly-cat' - and stared at us when they came off as though to ask "what was all that about"? She was known to have a certain feline cunning when food or favoured seating places were an option: once, she chased her companion, Kira, off the most comfy seat in the house by licking her until Kira couldn't take it anymore and moved. Then Dara came and seated herself on the already-warmed space.

She had a distinctive yowl - not plaintive, but a demand. "Where's my food?" Or "where's my pats?" "What are you doing?" She enjoyed scritches around the ruff of her neck, and would sometimes lick your fingers, but hated what my sisters and I call the "kiss onna head".

The stepdad doted on her in myriad ways, although she was technically my stepbrother's cat. But when A moved out, Dara stayed, and the stepdad took her on and became her favourite person. He'll probably miss her most, although we'll all find ourselves pausing a moment to look for the familiar black-and-white lump parked in the middle of the floor, as though she has every right to be there.

RIP Dara. You were unflappable and we loved you.