It’s the moment. She lies bloated and cancerous outside the back door. Oozing dark fluids and pungent. Unable to move, breathe rasping. Infected and unpleasant to the touch. The mother of a number hard to know. Abandoned, she has come to die, Is she peaceful? Is she in pain? This is how it ends – how nature wills it.

Emotions swirl around her. A barely living example of mortality. Fear of death. Sorrow at her pain. Anger at the condition she is in. Anxiety at confronting what comes to us all. Uncertainty about what to do – let nature takes its course or speed the journey. To hide or confront the moment. Guilt – she was no-one’s favourite, tolerated and barely appreciated.

And then – one shot and 15 minutes – she is gone. Wrapped in white paper, blue taped and handed back in a supermarket carrier bag. Brought home, left by the car in the shade and then buried without ceremony. Now you look for her and she is not there. May she rest in peace.