I’ve always loved animals. As a child, I desperately wanted a cat, but my parents said no. They wanted no animals in the house, they were dirty and too much work. So, I contented myself with befriending all the neighbourhood cats. Eventually, I was bought rabbits for my eleventh birthday. Two little chocolate Dutch rabbits called Bonny and Fluffy – I was eleven, don’t judge me. I loved my rabbits, and through those traumatic teen years often wept into their fur and cuddled their little bodies until they were so tame, they’d jump from the hutch into my arms. But they weren’t a cat.

At 21 I was married with a flat of my own, and at last I could get a cat. So off I trotted to the local stray cat’s home to get a kitten. A dear little fluffball that would love and snuggle with me at night. Instead, I came home with a fat, three-year-old tom cat called Zac. (For the full story of why this occurred and how Zac “chose” me, please read my book “Becoming Lili”).

Right from day one, Zac made it plain I was his human and existed to fulfil his every need. Which I did, because I idolised him. He was good-natured and funny, had a personality as big as all the world, and was the most gentlemanly cat I’ve ever encountered. I once had a friend visit with her two small children who were a bit over-zealous with their attentions towards Zac.

“Zac just hissed at Katie.”

“What?! Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorry, he’s never done that before.”

“No, no, she’s pulled his tail, squeezed his paws, poked him in the eye, stuck her finger in his ear, yanked on his collar and sat on him – I think he was well within his rights to hiss at her!

And that was Zac in a nutshell. In the seven wonderful years I had him, I never saw him lift a claw to a human being – the local wildlife, ah, sadly, that was another matter – I once opened the back door to find nine bodies lined up in a row. NINE! With Zac the mighty hunter sitting there, white chest puffed up with pride he’d provided so much meat for his woman. What was more impressive was they were all lined up in order of size, from a large rabbit one end right down to a tiny shrew at the other. He’d bitten all the heads off though, because of course as provider he got first dibs. A rule I firmly respected. I would always make a fuss of him and then wait until he sauntered off, proud tail in the air, before shudderingly disposing of the bodies in the bin. Well, I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, did I?

Once, I was sitting on the sofa when a loud SQUAWK split the evening air. Startled, I looked up as the cat flap burst open and a very large seagull head was thrust through. Shocked, both bird and I eyed each other up, before he uttered another squawk and was dragged back through the flap. Intrigued, I crept over and peered through, only to see Zac, jaws clamped firmly around the seagull’s shoulder, eyeing up the cat flap as if wondering how to get this rather large thing he’d caught indoors. It plainly wasn’t going through headfirst, so how about if he… slowly, Zac backed his butt through the cat flap, his intention clear. Drag it through backwards, that’ll work! Trying hard not to roll on the floor with laughter, I waited until his back legs were in, then tapped him on the bottom and shouted. Shocked, he let go and the gull flew away, totally unharmed and with a hell of a story to tell his mates down the pub that night.

I adored Zac. He was The Boy, my best friend, my comfort. Tragically I didn’t get to keep him for long, and ironically it was his love of hunting that was his downfall. The empty house next door had an infestation of mice, so the sellers called in exterminators, Zac ate a poisoned mouse and that was the end of him. Broke. My. Heart. I’ve had other cats since, and of course I’ve loved them, but not the way I loved him. You never forget your first.

Next came a pair of sisters – Pandora and Perdita – six months old and cute as buttons. Pandora a sleek short haired black cat. Perdita a tiny black and white fluffball. They were as different as chalk and cheese. Pandora was a comfortable, loving, sensible cat, who was also a very impressive ratter and mouser – not quite in the same league as The Boy, but still not bad. Perdita couldn’t have caught a cold if her life depended on it. Jealous of her sister’s prowess, she’d desperately raid bird tables and bring back crusts of bread and foraged bits of cake for my approval. Half eaten McDonalds would be dragged through the cat flap, and once she brought back almost an entire rack of BBQ ribs! They also hated each other, and jealousy would run rife if one caught the other being given attention.

Perdita was a wannabe alcoholic, and visitors were warned not to leave drinks unattended as the cat would have them. Once, desperately trying to fight a serious slug problem in our garden, we put out beer slug traps. We should have known that was a bad idea. Perdita gaily knocked the lids off, ate the beer marinated slugs and drank the juice. She then came into the lounge, squinted at us, puked green slug all over the rug, and lay on her back for the rest of the day quite clearly inebriated.

Then I had a baby; and bringing Miss F home from the hospital I was a little concerned. How would the cats react? Used to being sole centre of our attention, would they be jealous of the baby? I needn’t have worried. Pandora was very polite. She looked at this pink, squirming thing, then removed herself from its presence. Never unkind to the baby, she made her supreme indifference to its existence plain. Perdita on the other hand, was completely different. Right from the word go, it was love at first sight.

I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a cat loving a baby as much as Perdita loved Miss F. I couldn’t keep those two apart, and in the end, I gave up. They were meant to be. I don’t have a single baby photo that doesn’t have that little black and white scrap in it, and if the baby ever cried, Perdita was immediately there to comfort and cheer. At the time, we had a tank of tropical fish, and every morning after breakfast I’d pop Miss F in her pushchair in front of the tank. Her and Perdita would sit there together and watch the brightly moving fish, mesmerised, and occasionally turning to each other in wonder when a fish would flash by in a blaze of bright colour.

When she started moving around, Miss F was a roller and would roll from one end of the room to the other, right over anything that happened to be in the way. She’d roll straight over Perdita and there’d be a tangle of cat and child, which scared me at first because I thought this tiny animal might be crushed. But no, the cat would emerge, wild-eyed and skittish from the ride, and immediately dash to position herself to be rolled over again.

Perdita was my adorable problem child, no one could pick her up except me, and she stayed as tiny as a kitten. Her ability to be sick anywhere was an ongoing problem, until we realised, she was allergic to cat food (of course she was) and had to buy expensive special formula biscuits for her. Then one day she got ill, she lost weight she couldn’t afford to lose, and her spark faded. We took her to the vet. I knew in my heart we wouldn’t be bringing her back and I’d warned Miss F – who was nine at the time – that we were going to have to be very brave. I was right, it was kidney failure, the curse that seems to get most cats in the end.

Now I’ve been told I was wrong, that I shouldn’t have allowed my young daughter to be present when Perdita was put down, but I stand by my decision. Miss F held her friend in her arms, soothing and loving her as the vet slipped in the needle and that dear little scrap let go of the last thread of life she’d been clinging to. Then we brought her home. Miss F sat and cuddled her body for a while, and cried good healthy tears, then we made a beautiful coffin out of a shoebox and lined it with silk, before holding a moving funeral in the back garden. It wasn’t gross or disgusting, it was natural and healing, and it taught my daughter that yes, it’s fun to have a pet, but taking on the responsibility of an animal means so much more than just feeding them and playing with them. It means cleaning up after them, taking care of their needs and, ultimately, making that tough decision and soothing their way at the end.

That left Pandora. Elderly, quiet and loving, Pandora remained a sweet and gentle creature right up to her own demise two years later. But I have no comforting memories of her end, and her exit wasn’t the loving, dignified death her sister had. I noticed she was off her food; with a sinking heart realised the weight was dropping off her and recognised the familiar symptoms of kidney failure. Bracing ourselves for the inevitable, we took her to the vet.

Only we didn’t see our normal vet – vastly experienced and elderly, he’d been vet to all our animals and knew them well. He was away, so instead we got a young, fresh out of university, vet who perkily informed us that no, Pandora might yet be saved. I was not convinced, as far as I was aware there was no coming back from kidney failure and it was a long, painful death for the animal. I certainly didn’t want that for Pandora, but against my better judgement allowed tests to be run and we brought her home to await results.

Two days passed, two days in which she slowly wasted away. Then my normal vet phoned me at work, furious she’d been left to suffer – I got the impression the young vet had been firmly spoken to – and adamant Pandora’s suffering must be ended as soon as possible. An emergency appointment was made for that evening and I hurried home to collect the cat and Miss F and take them to the vet. But Pandora was gone, and by gone, I don’t mean died, I mean she’d gone as in vanished. Taken herself off into the cold, dark, wet October night to die all alone.

We put notes through doors. Every single neighbour turned out. Every single one. In the darkness they took torches and searched for her, in and behind sheds, under bushes, in compost heaps – anywhere they thought a cat might have crawled to die, they searched. It astounded me how many hearts Pandora had touched in the fifteen years she’d lived on the street, and everyone had a Pandora story to tell. For several hours we looked, but it was no good, we never found her.

The guilt of that lives with me still. She was my cat, I was her human, she trusted me, and I let her down. At the end, when she needed me most, I wasn’t there for her, and the thought of her going alone into that dark night is one that will never leave me.

But life moves on. Miss F was desperate for another cat, a young one this time, one that had chosen her and would be her special friend. The house felt empty without an animal in it, so we went to the RSPCA and found a little, black, nine-month-old girl called Skittles. Sweet, loving and friendly, she settled into our home immediately and now, over five years later, it’s hard to imagine life without her.

But nothing ever goes smoothly, and now Skittles is sick with some mysterious ailment that has left her nervous and reluctant to come into the house anymore. The vet has diagnosed anxiety, but I don’t know how that can be treated, or even if it can be. I wonder sometimes why we bother to have pets; my parents were right in that they can be dirty and a lot of trouble, and then they die and break your heart. But, a house without a pet in it? To me that wouldn’t be a home.

I’m sorry this week’s blog has been a bit of a ramble, I actually was unsure what to chat to you about, but concern about Skittles had me sitting down and pouring my thoughts out to you all. I will keep you posted on Instagram and Facebook about her progress, and links to these are at the bottom of the page.

Next week, we’ll be exploring the fascinating topic of vampires in literature and I’ll have a special guest appearance and interview with the lovely Becky Wright, whose wonderful new book “Mr Stoker & I” will be released next Saturday – trust me, I was lucky enough to read an advance copy and it is fantastic.

Hope you can join me then.

Julia