A catless writer is almost inconceivable. It's a perverse taste, really, since it would be easier to write with a herd of buffalo in the room than even one cat; they make nests in the notes and bite the end of the pen and walk on the typewriter keys.
Death is nothing at all; I have only slipped away into the next room; I am I, and you are you; Whatever we were to each other, that we still are; Call me by my old familiar name; speak to me in the easy way which you always used; Put no difference in your tone; wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow; Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together; Play, smile, think of me, pray for me; Let my name be ever the household word that it always was; let it be spoken without effect; without the trace of a shadow on it; Life means all that it ever meant; It is the same that it ever was;; there is unbroken continuity; Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?; I am waiting for you, for an interval; somewhere very near, just round the corner; And all is well; Canon Henry Scott Holland; Death is Nothing At All.
I had bought two male chimps from a primate colony in Holland. They lived next to each other in separate cages for several months before I used one as a heart donor. When we put him to sleep in his cage in preparation for the operation, he chattered and cried incessantly. We attached no significance to this, but it must have made a great impression on his companion, for when we removed the body to the operating room, the other chimp wept bitterly and was inconsolable for days. The incident made a deep impression on me. I vowed never again to experiment with such sensitive creatures.