By . Amanda Platell . On my bedside table I have a picture of me lying on the sofa hugging Jim. It’s a bit blurry because it was taken with an old-fashioned Polaroid camera, but it is precious because it’s the last picture of me together with my beloved old ginger tom. When it was taken, I knew Jim’s days were numbered, but even then we weren’t quite ready to let go of each other. As anyone who has welcomed a cat into their home as part of the family will recognise, however sick they get, however skinny and matted, you know when there’s life in the old furball yet — and when it’s time to let them go. And so do they. Old favourites: Amanda Platell's treasured Polaroid picture of her old ginger tom Jim who has since died . No vet, no friend even, can make that decision for you. It’s a heartbreaking pact you and your pet enter into together, when the time is right. That’s why I was so appalled — and enraged — to read how the RSPCA had stepped in and ordered the destruction of a bedraggled but beloved elderly cat named Claude, against his family’s wishes. A neighbour had reported that Claude looked unkempt, yet his owners insist he was perfectly healthy — just a skinny, matted mess of old fur. He was a long-haired Turkish Van who hated being groomed so much that his family took him to the vet every year to be anaesthetised so he could be brushed properly. Hardly the act of uncaring or neglectful owners. Eventually, the vet refused to continue this practice on the grounds it wasn’t good for Claude to have any more anaesthetics, so his devoted owner Samantha Byrnes cut his fur with nail clippers while he slept — hence the bedraggled look that alarmed the oh-so zealous neighbour. When the RSPCA arrived, they seized the family cat, insisted that he was put down, then issued legal proceedings against Samantha and her husband Richard — an accountant from Tring in Hertfordshire — for cruelty. The family also claim that the charity even refused a stay of execution for four hours to give their two children, Eloise and Dominic, the chance to say goodbye to Claude — though an RSPCA spokesman disputes that. Now, thankfully, the CPS has ruled that the prosecution must be dropped, which is a small mercy given what the family have been through. They had the good sense to tape their conversations with the RSPCA inspector — and the officer can be heard threatening them with calling in the police if they don’t agree to have Claude killed. Unsurprisingly, Mrs Byrnes can be heard bursting into tears several times. The charity says it had been concerned for Claude’s welfare — but is it any wonder that it’s haemorrhaging donations? They fell by £7 million last year, and membership is down by six per cent. Many fear the RSPCA has become obsessed with pursuing politically motivated causes, like the prosecution of the Prime Minister’s rural hunt. Last year it prosecuted an owner for not taking a sick cat to the vet, and threatened a woman with prison after she treated her dog’s fleas with a canine shampoo that could have given it an allergy. And a report reveals that 3,400 animals were put down by the charity in 2011 for ‘non- medical reasons’ — 44 per cent of all those taken in. Claude the cat, who was put down against his family's wishes after they were reported to the RSPCA . Yes, the RSPCA does fine work, and the vast majority of its actions lead to convictions. But it seems as though an arrogance has seeped into this organisation that means it sometimes plays God with our beloved pets. It now feels it can step in and destroy any animal it chooses — even one like Claude, who, as tests proved after he was put down, was as healthy as any elderly cat could be. Reading his story made my blood run cold, then boil, and brought the memories flooding back of my beloved Jim’s last months. Because he proved that a cat and its owner are the best possible judges of when the time to go is right. His arrival in my life in 2003 was somewhat unusual. I had just lost my beloved cat Ronnie, brother of the then recently departed Reggie, and had written about the terrible loss in the Mail. No cat, I thought, could replace my constant companions of almost two decades. But that was before I found this adorable six-year-old ginger moggie, who looked after me for 11 years. Despite his grumpy appearance (he had an adorable overhanging forehead), he was the sweetest, most gentle cat I’ve ever known. I nicknamed him ‘Slipper’ because wherever I was, he came plodding along — purring so loudly it was like an ever-present buzz-saw. He grew fat and happy, and having been very timid, did eventually venture outside, safe in the knowledge that nothing would ever separate us except death. As a kitten, he had been in and out of cat homes. But how he blossomed. It was only towards the end, when he couldn’t make it up the stairs to my bedroom, that he didn’t sleep curled behind my knees each night. By then he had a lot of health problems — he was on daily pills for his failing kidneys and an overactive thyroid. Like Claude, he had crazy fur, too — standing on end as though he’d gelled it up — because he wasn’t able to clean himself properly. But luckily he had only one tooth left by then, so he couldn’t bite me as I gently helped him swallow his medication, followed by lashings of beef and turkey Whiskas. But his favourite treat was Marks & Spencer prawns, cut into tiny pieces so he could ‘gum’ them properly. Due to his overactive thyroid, it didn’t matter how much he ate, he just got skinnier and skinnier — his weight dropped from 18lb at his peak to just 4lb. It sounds as though Claude was in a similar situation — bony, matted and scraggy. But even if a cat looks like that, it doesn’t mean they aren’t happy. All I had to do was open a pack of prawns, and Jim was there like lightning. At least until one day about a year ago. He was asleep on the sofa at the other end of the sitting room when I brought in some prawns, and he didn’t move. He also cried out when I picked him up. Determined that he receive the best care, I called out the vet, who examined him and announced: ‘It’s time.’ He said he could put Jim to sleep then and there, but I knew in my heart he wasn’t ready for that — and nor was I. So we decided to see how he fared over the weekend. Well, Jim must have heard us because he rallied and was down off that sofa like a kitten the next day for his prawn treat — although using the cushion steps I’d built up for him because he had trouble jumping up and down. That call to the vet the following Monday was one of the happiest of my life. ‘Nope, it’s not time,’ I said. ‘But what about the quality of his life?’ the vet asked. Jim, I reported, was happy, not in pain and purring. No Liverpool cat pathway for him yet, thanks, I said. Like the Byrne family, who knew Claude was getting towards the end but wasn’t ready to die, I wanted Jim to have one last summer. That’s exactly what he got — and another autumn and winter, too. I had the vet check on him regularly, and the diagnosis was simply that he was old. Yet even then, nothing dimmed those beautiful green eyes nor silenced that purr. Then, just before Easter this year, Jim had a minor stroke and raced around the room, clearly in distress and howling. In the days that followed, the life visibly ebbed out of him. He looked so weary. Then one morning, when I went down to cuddle him and prepare his breakfast, he didn’t want to get off the sofa. He looked at me as it to say: ‘I’m ready’ — and I knew he was. That’s the magical thing about cats. It happened with both Reggie and Ronnie: they knew their time had come before I did. So I called the vet and held Jim in my arms in his last moments. He opened those great big eyes and blinked slowly at me, and his limp body just melted into mine. And then he was gone. That’s the ending Claude should have had — surrounded by the family who loved him, not put down in some strange place at the behest of an official who had threatened his owners with police action.
Apalled and enraged RSPCA ordered the destruction elderly cat Claude .
Many fear RSPCA is obsessed with pursuing politically motivated causes .
Arrogance means organisation sometimes plays God with our beloved pets .
By . Amanda Platell . On my bedside table I have a picture of me lying on the sofa hugging Jim. It’s a bit blurry because it was taken with an old-fashioned Polaroid camera, but it is precious because it’s the last picture of me together with my beloved old ginger tom. When it was taken, I knew Jim’s days were numbered, but even then we weren’t quite ready to let go of each other. As anyone who has welcomed a cat into their home as part of the family will recognise, however sick they get, however skinny and matted, you know when there’s life in the old furball yet — and when it’s time to let them go. And so do they. Old favourites: Amanda Platell's treasured Polaroid picture of her old ginger tom Jim who has since died . No vet, no friend even, can make that decision for you. It’s a heartbreaking pact you and your pet enter into together, when the time is right. That’s why I was so appalled — and enraged — to read how the RSPCA had stepped in and ordered the destruction of a bedraggled but beloved elderly cat named Claude, against his family’s wishes. A neighbour had reported that Claude looked unkempt, yet his owners insist he was perfectly healthy — just a skinny, matted mess of old fur. He was a long-haired Turkish Van who hated being groomed so much that his family took him to the vet every year to be anaesthetised so he could be brushed properly. Hardly the act of uncaring or neglectful owners. Eventually, the vet refused to continue this practice on the grounds it wasn’t good for Claude to have any more anaesthetics, so his devoted owner Samantha Byrnes cut his fur with nail clippers while he slept — hence the bedraggled look that alarmed the oh-so zealous neighbour. When the RSPCA arrived, they seized the family cat, insisted that he was put down, then issued legal proceedings against Samantha and her husband Richard — an accountant from Tring in Hertfordshire — for cruelty. The family also claim that the charity even refused a stay of execution for four hours to give their two children, Eloise and Dominic, the chance to say goodbye to Claude — though an RSPCA spokesman disputes that. Now, thankfully, the CPS has ruled that the prosecution must be dropped, which is a small mercy given what the family have been through. They had the good sense to tape their conversations with the RSPCA inspector — and the officer can be heard threatening them with calling in the police if they don’t agree to have Claude killed. Unsurprisingly, Mrs Byrnes can be heard bursting into tears several times. The charity says it had been concerned for Claude’s welfare — but is it any wonder that it’s haemorrhaging donations? They fell by £7 million last year, and membership is down by six per cent. Many fear the RSPCA has become obsessed with pursuing politically motivated causes, like the prosecution of the Prime Minister’s rural hunt. Last year it prosecuted an owner for not taking a sick cat to the vet, and threatened a woman with prison after she treated her dog’s fleas with a canine shampoo that could have given it an allergy. And a report reveals that 3,400 animals were put down by the charity in 2011 for ‘non- medical reasons’ — 44 per cent of all those taken in. Claude the cat, who was put down against his family's wishes after they were reported to the RSPCA . Yes, the RSPCA does fine work, and the vast majority of its actions lead to convictions. But it seems as though an arrogance has seeped into this organisation that means it sometimes plays God with our beloved pets. It now feels it can step in and destroy any animal it chooses — even one like Claude, who, as tests proved after he was put down, was as healthy as any elderly cat could be. Reading his story made my blood run cold, then boil, and brought the memories flooding back of my beloved Jim’s last months. Because he proved that a cat and its owner are the best possible judges of when the time to go is right. His arrival in my life in 2003 was somewhat unusual. I had just lost my beloved cat Ronnie, brother of the then recently departed Reggie, and had written about the terrible loss in the Mail. No cat, I thought, could replace my constant companions of almost two decades. But that was before I found this adorable six-year-old ginger moggie, who looked after me for 11 years. Despite his grumpy appearance (he had an adorable overhanging forehead), he was the sweetest, most gentle cat I’ve ever known. I nicknamed him ‘Slipper’ because wherever I was, he came plodding along — purring so loudly it was like an ever-present buzz-saw. He grew fat and happy, and having been very timid, did eventually venture outside, safe in the knowledge that nothing would ever separate us except death. As a kitten, he had been in and out of cat homes. But how he blossomed. It was only towards the end, when he couldn’t make it up the stairs to my bedroom, that he didn’t sleep curled behind my knees each night. By then he had a lot of health problems — he was on daily pills for his failing kidneys and an overactive thyroid. Like Claude, he had crazy fur, too — standing on end as though he’d gelled it up — because he wasn’t able to clean himself properly. But luckily he had only one tooth left by then, so he couldn’t bite me as I gently helped him swallow his medication, followed by lashings of beef and turkey Whiskas. But his favourite treat was Marks & Spencer prawns, cut into tiny pieces so he could ‘gum’ them properly. Due to his overactive thyroid, it didn’t matter how much he ate, he just got skinnier and skinnier — his weight dropped from 18lb at his peak to just 4lb. It sounds as though Claude was in a similar situation — bony, matted and scraggy. But even if a cat looks like that, it doesn’t mean they aren’t happy. All I had to do was open a pack of prawns, and Jim was there like lightning. At least until one day about a year ago. He was asleep on the sofa at the other end of the sitting room when I brought in some prawns, and he didn’t move. He also cried out when I picked him up. Determined that he receive the best care, I called out the vet, who examined him and announced: ‘It’s time.’ He said he could put Jim to sleep then and there, but I knew in my heart he wasn’t ready for that — and nor was I. So we decided to see how he fared over the weekend. Well, Jim must have heard us because he rallied and was down off that sofa like a kitten the next day for his prawn treat — although using the cushion steps I’d built up for him because he had trouble jumping up and down. That call to the vet the following Monday was one of the happiest of my life. ‘Nope, it’s not time,’ I said. ‘But what about the quality of his life?’ the vet asked. Jim, I reported, was happy, not in pain and purring. No Liverpool cat pathway for him yet, thanks, I said. Like the Byrne family, who knew Claude was getting towards the end but wasn’t ready to die, I wanted Jim to have one last summer. That’s exactly what he got — and another autumn and winter, too. I had the vet check on him regularly, and the diagnosis was simply that he was old. Yet even then, nothing dimmed those beautiful green eyes nor silenced that purr. Then, just before Easter this year, Jim had a minor stroke and raced around the room, clearly in distress and howling. In the days that followed, the life visibly ebbed out of him. He looked so weary. Then one morning, when I went down to cuddle him and prepare his breakfast, he didn’t want to get off the sofa. He looked at me as it to say: ‘I’m ready’ — and I knew he was. That’s the magical thing about cats. It happened with both Reggie and Ronnie: they knew their time had come before I did. So I called the vet and held Jim in my arms in his last moments. He opened those great big eyes and blinked slowly at me, and his limp body just melted into mine. And then he was gone. That’s the ending Claude should have had — surrounded by the family who loved him, not put down in some strange place at the behest of an official who had threatened his owners with police action.
and ordered the destruction of a bedraggled but beloved elderly cat named Claude, against his cent. Many fear the RSPCA has become obsessed with pursuing politically motivated causes, like means it sometimes plays God with our beloved