We watched The Curious Case of Benjamin Button - a really bad choice when one of your best friends has just died. Life and death are so skewed in that film. I collapsed in bed at the end of the night - another crying jag - David smoothing his hands across my back - me trying to catch my breath - clutching at the calm before it hit me again.
Our cat, Minuit, leapt onto the bed. She dropped a soft toy on my chest. It was part of a monster doll set - little plush pieces that velcroed together - you could add an arm or an extra eye, a tail or horns - like making your very own tribe of Wild Things.
"Honey," I said to her. "I can't. I can't play right now." Minuit liked you to throw the toy and she'd fetch it for you - it was one of her favourtie games. I took the toy away and stashed it in my bedside table. David held me as I started to cry again.
A few minutes later she dropped another piece on me.
"Minuit. No. I can't." That piece, too, ended up in the bedside table.
A few minutes later - another piece, and then, when I refused the throw that one, another... and another... and another...
She didn't want to play. She was bringing me gifts. We were on the second floor, and every time I took a toy, she'd tromp two floors down to the basement - jump into the toy box to find a piece and she'd offer it to me. I guess she didn't know what else to do, given my bouts of hysterical sobbing. She was giving her equivalent of dead mice - she wanted me to feel better. It went on for about half and hour. I found myself laughing and crying, with 23 monster toy pieces in the bedside table by the time she was done. Then, she lay beside me, pressed to my side - pumping her paws against my ribs to let me know that she was there.
So go ahead, try and tell me that cats are anti-social. You're wrong.