I always knew that there would come a day when it finally happened and I fulfilled the imagined goal of single women everywhere – I adopted a cat last December.  He has me, as well as my sofas, draining board, and the run of the flat. Considering he is blind, (the science bit is that he has “bi-lateral retinal detachment”) and possesses only one eye, this is to be admired all the more.

Before Inky arrived from the JSPCA, via their Facebook page and a friend who wisely said “You could get a cat” with his green saucer eye (and it doesn’t really work, so he has to live indoors) and black velvet fur, I decided to set down some ground rules.  No climbing, no treats, no taking my food nor sleeping on my bed – and as it turns out, no chance of enforcing any of them.

It turned out that there had been a bit of innocent misrepresentation where Inky was concerned.  “Inky loves cuddles!” extolled the description. I went to meet him, only to be greeted by a quick bite from his sharp little teeth.  “Oh yes, he might greet you with a nip”, I was told. “It’s his way of saying hello.”  And so Inky came home with his exacting claws, jingly toys and love of climbing, despite not being able to see.

At the age of 18 months, Inky helped me to speed towards a rather more significant birthday as he ignored his scratching post, tried to eat my crisps, drank water from a glass I had left for a moment –  and carried mini Molton Brown shower gel bottles around in his mouth.

By adopting him before I turned 4-0 in March, I exceeded my own expectations of when I would fit the stereotype of the single woman living with a cat.  I had estimated that I would turn this particular corner in about five years time, but how could I not have him and run the risk that no-one else would love him?   As the vet warned me before I brought him home, if Inky didn’t thrive with me, they would “have to see about putting him to sleep”. And with that, his fate was sealed  (Inky’s, not the vet’s),- and I became Cat Woman.

Like many members of the male order, Inky does not give much of himself in my presence.  He sleeps as he pleases, he doesn’t communicate much and certainly doesn’t want a cuddle. He enjoys his food. Occasionally one paw will edge towards me though, just to check I am on the bit of the sofa where I am allowed.

Unfortunately though, asthma has intervened on this version of domestic bliss and a halt has been placed on his watchful little presence.  As part of trying to avoid my fifth consecutive year in a row in hospital due to being unable to breathe, I had some exciting tests which measure allergies for everything from paper to horses. As I felt it was unlikely that I would do some origami on horseback  whilst holding a puppy as I breathed in pollen anytime soon, I wasn’t too concerned.

All was well (if you don’t mind having a few needles stuck in your arm and watching the site turn red for a few minutes), until the results arrived. Apparently I am highly allergic to cats, as in off the scale allergic – five times more than the maximum recommended highest reading.  “So”, said the doctor:  “Your rating of allergy to cats was about 1,100 – and the maximum really is 200.”  My highly persuasive non- clinical opinion that four previous asthma attacks had not been due to cat ownership was met with raised eyebrows.

I did with this information what any respecting pet lover would do at this point – I stuck my head in the sand and told Inky that everything would be fine. My health did not matter in the slightest. He could continue to haunt my bathroom and kitchen sinks (he prefers a running tap to drink from), the draining board and the dish washer when it is being emptied. He could help to rip up newspapers and magazines I was enjoying and knock over delicate items. He could shred novels. He could continue to sit on the balcony under my supervision, enjoying the scent of his cat grass and herbs and listening to the bees that he could never quite catch.

But some things have to become more important and I have sent him on a summer holiday (for now) to my  twin sister’s family, to see how we all get on.  He will have his grand tour of a new holiday home and I will get my optimum lung function back, so it seems like a fair swap.

He has new rooms to explore, but, for now, I do not have my Inky boy. I will miss his bravery in using the stairs, despite being sightless, and the precision of his teeth which remind me it’s time to feed him.  I will no longer be woken at 4.00am as phones and inhalers are pushed from the bedside table by a cat-shaped poltergeist, or so it seems in the early hours. The table has long since been used as a scratching post (he didn’t like the one from the pet shop) and served him well.  The fact I hand painted it (and stencilled the damn thing – well, it was the nineties) –  is neither here nor there.

Inky won’t jump into the recently vacated bath each day and I won’t see him balance on window sills as he turns his little face to the breeze and the warmth of the sun, but he will be loved.  He isn’t “just a cat”, but a little being who I took time to get to know and will hopefully know again.  He was my main reason to get up in the morning and to go home in the evening.

I am more sure than ever that animals have souls and that if we can adopt one to give it a loving home, then we should, because they give you so much with their presence.  I am even more sure, that as I sit here with tears running down my face because I miss him so much, that, for a time, happiness was indeed a cat called Inky.

Thank you for reading.