Don't read on if you don't want details, just scroll down to tribute story.
She had been panting earlier, and had become rapidly dehydrated, so I rehydrated her, and fanned her as she's inclined to overheat. She seemed to enjoy this, but was plainly still distressed. This is after midnight on a Friday night - the way cats always manage it, and anyone less ornery than Fenella I have yet to meet. She insisted on getting off the bed and marching all the way down the corridor to use HER litter tray to do a wee; then she wanted a poo but couldn't make it into the tray. And then she had her big attack, and died in Simon's arms. She always was Daddy's girl.
Here's a piece of FanFiction I wrote for James Bond, from the point of view of Blofeld's cat; I was always thinking of our Duchess of Dhobi, the incomparable Fenella when I wrote it. I can't think of a more fitting tribute than showing a white cat in control of things.
Now let’s get one thing straight, all you would-be criminal masterminds out there; I’m in charge.
So long as you remember that, we shall deal perfectly amicably together.
You may call me ‘Your Grace’ and don’t forget to refer to me as ‘The Duchess’; it is after all only my due.
Naturally, Ernst Stavro Blofeld thinks that HE is the one who runs S.P.E.C.T.R.E. but he’s wrong. It’s me. I have my ways of controlling him you understand; subtle feminine charms, the way I sit on his lap and rub against him; he is as wax in my paws.
He does occasionally make the odd stupid error of course, trying to branch out on his own without listening to my telepathically communicated instructions; like the times he WILL try to tangle with that fellow Bond. Now it’s quite obvious that there are those creatures that look like prey but turn out to be anything but; and the Bond fellow is one of them. Cost me any number of my nine lives that dreadful fellow has. I bet he prefers dogs to cats. I could tell he was trouble the first time we encountered him; though of course I was NOT about to let him know he had me rattled.
But when my two legged slave does what I suggest all goes purrfectly.
It’s only when he thinks he has a brain that things go wrong.
I ask you; how COULD he have a performance factor better than mine? He isn’t white and fluffy and he can’t even purr in satisfaction when he has his enemy in his clutches; no wonder Bond always escapes. The deadly emanations of the self satisfied purr are well known.
So, kittens all, remember this lesson if you never remember anything; never let your humans actually make any decisions on their own even if you permit them to believe they are in charge. It will only end in needing a lot of washing to put right.