Unexpected fucking consequences will bite you in the ass every time.

Last year, we took in a stray pup. It was the rainy season and she seemed helpless and lost. As time went by, she became part of our household.

Earlier this year, we took in a neighbour's abandoned pup. Again, she seemed helpless and we told ourselves it was only until we found a new home for her.

Today, in the afternoon, we heard a cat screaming on the terrace.

I ran up to find that the two strays had pinned our grey tabby, Happy, down. The stray we took in last year had his neck in her jaws and was shaking him vigorously.

We chased the dogs away and tried to make Happy comfortable, but he died within the hour.

I'd been worried about the way the dogs were chasing our cats - in play, I suppose, but who gives a fuck about that, now - for a while. This was the final straw. I asked Yasmine to call the CUPA shelter and arrange for the dogs to be taken away. The van came for them an hour back.

Now we're boarding them there until we can find new homes for them. I suppose we owe them that much. But that's it. No more fucking dogs in the house. I don't give a shit how appealing or helpless they seem. This was my worst fucking birthday ever, and believe me, that's saying something. I'm not willing to deal with a repeat of it.

In the meantime, Happy, the fierce little cat who was first found in a dustbin, always ready to fight with cats twice his size, but always purry and loving with humans, could well have been left there in that dustbin to rot for all the good being rescued did him. He died cold, wet, frightened and in pain, brutalised by a pair of dogs and, worse yet, betrayed by the humans who were supposed to be keeping him safe.

I am sorry, Happy. I am so fucking sorry. I know your pain is over now, and that's the only thing that gives me any sense of relief in this fucked up situation.