In the midst of a week of total poo, my one little gem has been finishing The Guest Cat by Takashi Hiraide.

What a unique novel this is.

In its handful of pages there are two distinct layers. For cat-lovers, particularly, there's reliving the experience of having your heart totally taken over by a small feline.

But on a different level entirely, the cat and the effect she has on the author and his wife speak volumes about loss and change and the fragility of things.

Tellingly, Chibi is never wholly "owned" (not that you ever "own" any cat, but this one in particular was actually the neighbour's cat, and just slept over -- and ate over and played over -- at the author's place).

Continuing this pattern of transience and uncertainty, the events of the novel take place against the backdrop of a changing Japan. People age and move into care; the bottom is dropping out of the economy; neighbourhoods are evolving as old mansions are demolished and land sold off.

In the midst of all this flux, it's imperative to grasp the moment: to play with a cat, to relish the calm antiquity of the old house, to allow a dragonfly to settle on your finger.

As this reviewer puts it: "Fate goes where she wishes, times passes without pause, but our experiences of events belongs wholly to us in the moment, no matter the engulfing darkness to come."

It's a quintessentially Japanese novel to me, not only in its cat adoration, but also in its ability to combine grace, delicacy, and a haunting sadness.

And it's true, the old cliche: the pawprints these little furry things leave on your heart will never be erased.