After the loss of her beloved cat, Edith, columnist Melissa Todd is reminded of the frailty of life and importance of savouring every moment.

Two cats, sisters, one ginger, one grey. Meant to be housed separately, but both kept running away to find the other.

At last they found a home willing to take them both, where they were pampered and loved, curled up in a happy heap at the end of each day. When their owner died five years ago they came to live with us.

It took a while for them to relax and trust in their new environment. They would sit pressed together in a box in a corner of the sitting room, looking out suspiciously.

After a few days they began to emerge, to stretch exploratory paws and, eventually, perch on laps. They would lovingly cuff each other, groom wayward ears their own tongues couldn’t reach, curve round each other to sleep, breathing in unison.

Recently our grey lady had to be put to sleep. Mr Todd, braver than me, took her to the vet, nuzzling her close until the end. She went purring.

Heartbreaking as it was to lose one, her sister’s grief has been harder to bear. She roams the house howling, clinging to us, whimpering if we leave the room, as if fearful we will never return. 93% of language is non-verbal: it’s impossible to ignore that these are little creatures brimming with feelings and fears.

She combs the house and garden for signs of her sister, sits miaowing at her food, appetite lost, confused there’s only own bowl.

Too late I was told you can have your cat put to sleep at home, allow other pets to see her afterwards, so they can understand what’s happened.

Startling to think of cats understanding what’s happened, having a concept of death: a loved one being permanently absent, all that personality and possibility suddenly ceasing, when I find it almost impossible. I still expect to see Edith sitting in the corner of my room, purring loudly at the prospect of company.

In this last year I’ve lost both parents and another loss feels to have taken me straight back to the start of the grieving process, the rage, the guilt, the nightmares. There’s a well of sadness in me too hastily concealed, too readily accessed, and I’m of an age now where death seems to have me on speed dial.

But we need death, to give life value. Edith enjoyed the sunshine, breakfast, cuddles and company: would more of these joys really be better? Someone who behaves as if they were going to live forever is far more likely to squander their days than someone who understands they are numbered.

Instead, glean every tiny joy from each moment. Remember, one day this will be the last - the last train ride, the last hug, the last cup of coffee: savour them all. Go purring.