Me and my girls

On the 10 year anniversary of adopting my cats

I brought the sister kittens home on the bus. The meeped in distress and confusion for the whole journey down Old Kent Road and into Peckham. I held the plastic carry box by its handle but also underneath, in an attempt to stabilise it and make their journey calmer.

They were 12 weeks old. They’d been named ‘Elizabeth’ and ‘Darcy’ by Celia Hammond Animal Trust, who’d initially thought they were a boy and a girl kitten. I looked at them through the grated door of the box, bewildered by their deeply unkittenish names and tried to settle on new ones.

That first day I kept them in one room at the instruction of the internet. In one corner was their carry box, bowls of water and bowls of kibble and wet food. In another, just out of sight, a litter box. I opened the box and then sat on my sofa, trying to be nonchalant. Trying not to need them to immediately love me. I was incredibly depressed at the time, and I adopted the cats in part because I hoped they could heal me.

I decided to call the black and white one Minnie May, after a long dead distant relative who I’d spotted in a family tree, and the white and tabby one Alabama, after the protagonist in Zelda Fitzgerald’s novel Save Me the Waltz. I’d been told it was good to give them names with strong vowel sounds, because cats are more responsive to them.

Minnie and Bambam in the early days of us living together

The first thing they did was hide, dart out from the box and under the low, pink velvet chaise opposite my sofa. I played an episode of MasterChef on my laptop – I didn’t have a TV back then – performed attention to the screen. Tried to keep still still still. They had been rescued, found in a cardboard box in a carpark along with their mum and a clutch of bolder siblings. My girls were the ones left after all the others had been chosen. I quickly abandoned the name ‘Alabama’ which felt too precious and was loaded with associations I’d not fully contemplated. She became Bambam, or bammers, or bazzamatazz. Minnie lost her May.

They were frightened of me. To make a living thing cower feels terrible. There’s no way to talk a cat out of its fear. But slowly slowly slowly the kittens came out. Intrigued by the shimmy of a feather toy, tempted by Dreamies. They were so light their steps were silent. I’d sometimes not realise they were there until I saw them, clambering along the back of the sofa, hesitantly creeping up the slope of my legs to settle on my hip as I watched TV. The closer they got the more chosen I felt. Did they trust me now? I was impatient for it, but I had faith it would come. Eating a snack from my palm, settling onto the bed while I slept, brushing against my legs while I prepared their meals. I took all as signs, and before I knew it, they were around me all the time, asking for what they wanted – scritches, warmth, play.

The noise of a hairdryer. Someone at the front door. Vacuuming. Unavoidable, regular occurrences made them flee to a place of safety – a place I could not enter. I couldn’t enter their fascination either. They’d sit side by side and watch the washing the machine as it spun and jostled. They’d crouch, alert with attention, eyes fixed on what was beyond a closed door, a concealed corner of the room. What could they see that I couldn’t? I was intrigued but not enough to investigate. The cats, like me, were sensitive. There was no knowing what might set them off. I understood it. I realise now I thought their fear would rub off, that it was a temporary state caused by the traumatic start of the lives. That they would get used to the noise of a hairdryer. That the doorbell wouldn’t make them scarper. But their fears remain reliable as mine. I’m scared of moths. I’m scared of what I might find were I to pull out my kitchen appliances to clean underneath them. Slamming doors. I’m scared of Minnie and Bambam dying. I think of it daily. There’s no logic or release to these fears. And the things Minnie and Bambam are frightened of – a loud, unexpected noise. I’m frightened of too. I startle and I too have cowered in fright. Perhaps instead of attempting to overcome fears we valued more our ability to recover post-fright, in the same way it is seen as impressive how quickly the heart settles after exercise. The cats bounce back once the cause of fear has passed. It takes me a lot longer.

One of my daily comforts is seeing the cats curled up asleep. Often one of them sleeps under my bedspread, her body a hillock in an otherwise flat landscape. I love watching the soft lump of her breathe, only just discernible through the cover, which gently rises and falls. The other one will likely be in a box on a windowsill, and again I watch till I see that she is breathing, her fur a tiny ripple on water. I’m checking they are alive. Sometimes I don’t need to check because they also snore. That surprised me. Sighs, deep burrs, whistles. And they whimper watching birds outside, a plaintive, agitated sound. I record them, I try to imitate them, speak back. I want to keep them always.

We’ve been together now for 10 years, and we’ve all got a little stuck in ways. During the daytime Minnie takes the living room, where I work. Bambam sticks to my bedroom. At night, when I get into bed, Bambam comes to see me and she settles in my arms, is the little spoon. She doesn’t stay very long, but I rely on this time together. After a few minutes she jumps away, goes to shit in the litter box and returns to me, lying down stretched out along however my body is arranged for a few more minutes. I don’t know when she leaves or when I sleep. In the early hours, maybe 4 or 5am she usually comes back, pawing my face into waking up, and I coax her to lie down again so I can continue to sleep. Then when my alarm goes off, I find I’m alone. I get up to feed them and say hello where they’re usually asleep side by side on the sofa. Bambam has her breakfast and then retreats to my room, and Minnie hangs out with me while I talk through meetings and bash out emails. Sometimes when I’m in video calls, my hand is just out of sight on the video and trying to satisfy Minnie’s requests for scritches or brushing with my Hello Kitty Tangle Teezer. In the evening she’ll settle beside me while I watch TV. She needs to be invited by me smoothing out a blanket for her to climb down onto from the back of the sofa. I sometimes have to perform this ritual several times before she’ll go for it.

I feel accountable to the cats. I spook the cats with a sneeze and apologise. I hiccup and say, ‘sorry love’. I kill a mosquito with the thwack of a magazine and say, ‘I wish you’d not had to see that’. I step on a paw by accident and try to explain I didn’t mean to do that; I am so sorry for hurting you. I don’t change the Feliway in time and they get grouchy and antagonised by each other. I realise a little too late that they’re grooming a sore spot, or their toilet habits are changed. I run out of Dreamies. Give them a new fancy food they cannot be bothered with. Find their toys in cocoons of fluff in a corner they cannot get at. I fail and try to do better. Hope they trust me to look after them.

I take photos of them every day. Sometimes I zoom in on their paws, classifying their arrangement – church paws, pretzel paws, grumpy paws, louche paws – with a background intent to publish my findings at some future point when my research is complete. I video them emerging from under the covers, rolling in a shaft of sunlight, sniffing the flowers in the garden, looking cross and judgemental for reasons I cannot fathom. I especially love it when they look cross. It makes me laugh. Some days they’re the only thing that makes me smile.

When I’m on holiday I will stranger cats to come to me because I miss the familiar company of home. I look into their eyes and see my own cats. I stroke the holiday cats and watch their body language for signs of pleasure, indifference, and annoyance. I act accordingly. When I’m on holiday I sleep better for not being woken up by Bambam, but I miss her presence when I’m falling asleep. I’m accompanied by their absence although it isn’t a painful one. It lets me appreciate them and look forward to returning to them.

People with cats often say ‘the cat knows’ their mood and when they need the cat’s love. This is true for me. From Minnie steadying my emotions by sticking close to me when tears come. To Bambam lying beside me when I’m unwell. I listen to their purrs, vibrations that are believed to be self-healing, and allow the vibrations to heal me too. I’m happy for this to be a projection. But who is to say it is not true. I’m certain my heart rate is calmed by them. I know my days are given purpose through them. I know my hours have the possibility of joy because of them. Although I adopted them, I know that I put myself into their care. We touch each other and are reminded that we live. I touch them and am reminded I can love in the most uncomplicated way. I cannot expect Minnie and Bambam to love me as I love them. But regardless of what goes on in the hearts and minds of my cats, I feel so loved by them. All my suffering is soothed by them. It might just be I love them so much that some of my love bounces off them and is beamed back to me. And it is one of the greatest gifts of my life.