(Part One)

Let me make one thing clear: I am not her “Mum”, “Mummy” or “Mother” and she is not my “baby”. She is a person in her own right.  One could even say that she is my equal, only from a different species.  I am a Homo sapiens, she a Felis catus.  Although some of the looks she gives me suggest she harbours some doubts about the sapiens part. 

It took me twelve years to a) convince my husband that this was very, very, very, very, VERY important to me and b) find a consenting landlord.  In France, it is against the law to forbid a tenant from keeping a pet, but in England, a prohibition is written into your lease.  And they call it a nation of animal lovers.

I love cats and dogs equally but, being a very highly-strung individual, I would find it unbearable to live with someone like me, so I find the company of cats more soothing.  A dog adores you so much it wants to be just like you.  Yes, yes, let’s be highly-strung, agitated, irrational together! A cat gives you a stare that says, Get a grip or get a therapist.  Moreover, I find few things as relaxing as the sight of a cat slowly, lazily grooming itself.

K., a friend’s daughter who volunteers at a London cat rescue centre, immediately took it upon herself to find me the right Felis catus specimen.  A few days later, she e-mailed me an extensive collection of photos and videoclips.  She put in a good word for a large, cream-and-brown neutered tom with blue eyes.  “He’s a big softie who’ll follow you around everywhere,” she said.

“If I wanted a big softie who’d follow me around everywhere, I’d get a Labrador,” I replied.

No, I’d had twelve years to plan this to the minutest detail.  I wanted a female kitten.  My two previous cats were females and I find them more gutsy than neutered males.  A young kitten was imperative, so that I could mould it into the perfect member of our household.  I simply didn’t have the mental head space or the stamina for an adult cat’s emotional baggage.  Here I am, buckling under the weight of my own.  I’d even thought of a name: Luna.  I don’t know why.  I just liked the idea of a cat called Luna.  The right kind of name for a familiar.  Of course, one would first have to get to know the cat for a few days… Musetta instead, perhaps?

I scrolled through the photos sent by K. and clicked on the video links.  A few beautiful, regal-looking mollies.  A couple of tiny kittens.  I watched the clips of them being cute, playful and suitably irresistible, but, strangely, wasn’t drawn to them.  I reminded myself that kittens are hard to find and these were gorgeous.  I scrolled further down and there she was, staring at me from the screen with big, earnest, gold-yellow eyes. A black molly of eighteen months or so, rescued from a feral colony in East London.  The rescuers had called her Luna.

“Well, you did want a Luna,” Howard said.

No, I wanted a kitten.  That was non-negotiable.  I carried on looking at photos and clicking on links.  But the gold-yellow eyes kept following me.  There were other black cats up for adoption.  Let’s face it, all black cats look pretty much the same in photos.  A black outline with two yellow slits.  Except that there was a wealth of thoughts behind Luna’s gold-yellow slits.  There was a kind of depth in her eyes.  I clicked on her picture again and read her mini-biog.  She was described as a “polite” cat  who had adapted well to indoor living with her foster family and played gently with their small children.  While living on the streets, she had had two litters of kittens, all taken by urban foxes.  I imagined the heart-wrenching yowling of a mother cat coming back from hunting and frantically looking, in vain, for her kittens.  That’s not emotional baggage, I thought, that’s full-blown trauma.  I hoped she would find a kind, gentle human to adopt her and I went back to admiring the tiny kittens.

A couple of days later, K. phoned to ask if I’d had a chance to peruse the cat list.  “I know you’re set on a kitten,” she began before I could say anything, “but I was wondering if you would consider an adult cat at all.”

“Which one?” I asked, although something inside me already knew her answer.

“Luna.”

If that’s not Kismet, what is? I thought.

“Why her in particular?”

“From how you describe the kind of cat you’re looking for, I think you’d like her.”

“Okay.  Yes.  Bring her, please,” I said, a big sigh of relief escaping from not sure where.

And so, the following Saturday, 15th November 2025, K. drove Luna all the way from London to Norwich.  Apparently, she was silent for the entire duration of the journey.

I took the carrier K. was handing me, raised it and peered through the grating.  A pair of gold-yellow slits looked back at me inquisitively, but without fear, and something in my heart felt the way you feel when you meet an old friend.  “Hello, Luna,” I said.  “Welcome home.  I hope you’ll be happy here.”

To be continued