I ask this question as I’m supposed to be going to one tonight.  I’ve never been to this kind of reunion in my life, for all kinds of good reasons, chief among them being that I went to so many schools that I was never really at any of them long enough for anyone to remember me much all these years down the line.  Or so I thought.

In the case of the reunion I’m going to tonight, it’s to meet people from a school I was at for all of two years between the ages of 11 and 13.  I was on the fringes most of the time and, in retrospect, I would probably say I only had one real friend while I was there, and that’s the person who’s organising the reunion.  As for the rest of them, they treated me like I didn’t exist most of the time, and if they ever did notice me, it was generally followed by name-calling and, in some cases, bullying.  So what the hell am I doing even thinking about going along tonight?

I really don’t have an answer to that question.  Partly, it’s to see Jo again, as we were good friends once and it would be nice to see how she’s doing.  Maybe there’s also a part of me that wants to exorcise the whole experience, that maybe by being accepted as an adult I’ll be less hung up about the two years of misery I endured as a child.  I suspect that part may be doomed to failure, however, since I’m fat, frumpy and most likely have little or nothing in common with any of them.

Of course, not everyone in this world was so unhappy at school.  I can’t help wondering why other people go to school reunions.  Is it to share happy memories?  Is it to prove to everyone how well you’ve done in spite/in justification of people’s expectations?  Does the ugly duckling go back to prove to everyone he/she was a swan all along?  Does the class clown go along to prove that constant detention is the pre-requisite for a career in the City?  Might explain a few things…

What of the bullies?  I do occasionally wonder what became of them.  One I know from another school is now highly successful in her career with a satellite TV provider.  What of the ones from this school?  Perhaps tonight I’ll find out.

The one thing I can be reasonably sure of is that I won’t be staying late.  There’s a shared history among the others that goes well beyond the two years I was there, and I think I’ll be feeling left out past about 7pm.

Time to stop procrastinating.  There’s war paint to be applied and loins to be girded if I’m to face this lot tonight.  Who knows? Maybe I’ll even find an answer to the question.

My poor little moggy, Dyson, finally lost his ninth life at 2am.  After a week of veterinary appointments, blood tests and injections, he died mercifully quickly.  Mercifully, because he was very distressed when he went, and he clearly knew he was going.

I’m heartbroken.  I know there are those who will think that you can’t get that attached to a four-legged animal, or who can’t understand that one could be that fond of a cat, as opposed to a dog, as cats are always viewed as so stand-offish.  I can only say that Dyson was probably the friendliest cat you could hope to meet, and that there are thousands of actors in London who can vouch for that, as he provided cuddles and stress relief as they waited for their auditions, learned lines and rehearsed.  He even, in some cases, got used for blocking scenes when actors were delayed or absent.  He didn’t mind, he just loved the attention.

He was a shadow of his former self when he died.  It turned out that the problem was not kidney disease as I had previously feared, but a blood parasite that was causing major anaemia.  We had lots of blood tests that showed kidney and liver function were all good, that he wasn’t diabetic, and that he didn’t have FELV or FIV, which were the other candidates.  It all came down to a parasite, mycoplasma, and the vets were hopeful that, despite him being very weak, we would be able to treat him successfully.

I duly learned how to inject his antibiotics, since his vets knew even they couldn’t get pills down him.  And we went on Friday for a steroid injection that was supposed to help him.  The vet was enouraged that he was more alert, more mobile, and had put on 60g.  He showed all the signs of responding to treatment, so much so that we were told to take him back to the vets the next day for a second steroid jab, and to keep on giving the antibiotics.

Yesterday afternoon, I took him for his second steroid jab, but with the firm intention of refusing it.  Dyson’s breathing was laboured, he was listless and didn’t even want to go and sunbathe in his favourite flower pot when I carried him there.  I didn’t need to refuse.  On examining him, the vet decided that he was too weak t cope with a second steroid jab, told me to keep on with the antibiotics and to take him in on Monday ton check on his progress and give him another steroid jab if he was looking better.

So I took Dyson back home, went to the shop to get him some special cat food, fed him and jabbed him and cuddled him.  He settled on the mat by his bowls and seemed to sleep, which I figured could only help him.  Around 1.45am I heard him start making strange throaty sounds and went to check on him.  While S and I both checked him for obstructions in his throat, even going so far as to work out how to do a kitty heimlich manoeuvre, nothing we could do helped.  We both hit the phones looking for out of hours veterinary services, and it was while I was talking to one - phone in one hand, other hand trying in vain to comfort Dyson - that he lurched off - as if trying to escape from himself, the wheezing now more recognisably a gurgle - hid beneath the kitchen cabinets and died.  Even before I could get under there to investigate, I knew he was dead.  The silence gave it away.

I’ve let the vets know he won’t be making his appointment on Monday.  But I’ll pack up his medication, syringes and needles and take them back tomorrow.  I’ve asked them to give them to an animal hospital so they can do someone else’s pet some good.

While objectively I know Dyson was very weak, and there was always a chance he wouldn’t survive, I can’t help but feel that it was the steroid injection that carried him off.  But I’m no vet, so what do I know?  Just that, if you look at the evidence, he was getting better until that jab, after which he went downhill fast.  I even think the vet who saw him yesterday afternoon suspected this might happen, as she told me not to hesitate to call today if his condition worsened.

Does this help me?  Probably not.  It doesn’t give me what I would want the most, which is to have my darling cat purring in my arms again.  Maybe the best I can hope for is that the vet in question learns from the experience and somebody else’s pet survives as a result.

In the meantime, I have a cat to bury.  We have a small plot in mind at Dad’s, a grassy spot overlooking the fish pond, where he can rest next to his old friend, Octavia.  I’m as lost for words to say at the grave site now as I was when we buried her.  In the end, there is very little to be said.

Goodbye Dyson.  No cat could have been more loved, or as sorely missed.