Oh, that's bad.

The summer my father died, I was bearing up bravely until the death six weeks later of Alexander the Great, a fine biscuit-coloured tomcat. That truly flattened me.

For humans, you have to organize stuff -- obituary, undertaker, funeral, will! -- so the weeping and howling part of mourning can get put off. When your cat or dog dies you just cut to the chase and fall apart. I took the day off work (death in the family?), got a shovel and dug the hole and buried Alexander myself, snivelling and grizzling the whole time. It took me all afternoon.

I had a hard time explaining it to my boss, though. Nearly got fired. Jerk.