I noticed it properly on a Sunday, in the worst possible light.
Banjo — my six-year-old shorthair, the colour of burnt toast — was stretched across the back of the dark grey couch, and the afternoon sun was coming in low through the window. And there it was, all over the cushion behind him: a fine dusting of flakes, like someone had shaken icing sugar over the lounge. His coat, which used to feel like warm velvet, had gone slightly coarse. A bit dull. The fur on his belly was thinner than it should have been, in that patchy way that means a cat's been licking the same spot a little too much.
I'd been telling myself a story for months. He's getting older. It's the heating. It's shedding season. It's just how he is now.
Everyone I mentioned it to agreed. My mum, who's had cats her whole life, said the same thing — they get a bit scruffy as they age, love, don't fuss. So I didn't fuss. I bought a better brush. I vacuumed more.
Then I took him to a cat groomer for the first time, mostly to deal with the shedding. And she said something that's stuck with me since.
She ran her hands through his coat, parted the fur near his shoulders, looked at the skin underneath, and said: "This isn't an age thing. This is a dry-skin thing. Coat like this usually means he's not getting enough of the good fats. What are you feeding him?"