‘She’s the neighbourhood’s cat and we share custody. But I do wonder about her real owners’

Ihave a confession to make: I stole a cat. More accurately, she stole me. She is sitting here on the chair beside me, purring when, every so often, I reach over to pet her. I don’t know who she is or whether she’s even a ‘she’. I looked up a YouTube video to see how I could check and now I keep getting ads for cat toys and cat food and other videos about determining the sex of a cat (one was enough – thanks!).

It didn’t make a difference either way but it felt like something concrete I could know about this visitor to my home who is, otherwise, a complete mystery.

If you had asked me in the beginning, I would have told you that I did all the work, winning her over with patience (saucers of milk), persistence (saucers of milk), and attention (saucers of milk). In hindsight, I can see it was the other way around. Now, when she has me waiting up with her until midnight before gently coaxing her off the couch so I can go to bed, it really feels like maybe she’s the one with all the power in this relationship.

It began, as most relationships do, with shy curiosity. When we first moved on to the street, the cat would wander past the window, or look in at us from the back wall, or sometimes watch us in the garden from a distance, waiting to see if we were friendly.

I’ve never been a cat person. I’ve never owned or even, really, spent any time around a cat. I’m used to dogs. I understand their exuberance, their friendliness. The cool caution of a cat has always made me feel that they don’t like me.

But this one was different. With this one, the interest was mutual.

Our new home is on a small cul-de-sac, with long gardens to the front, through which the cat can weave and wander. During the summer, we would find her asleep on a neighbour’s patio furniture, or curled up on a welcome mat. She had no collar and none of our new neighbours knew who owned her. We’d talk about her together. We’d swap our observations about where we had seen her and where she might be going, the sort of conversation you might have about a shared pet. And it did feel as if the neighbours had collectively adopted her. The general consensus was that she was wild.

With the weather turning and a chill descending, I began to fret about where the cat might shelter during the cold months. It was a less pressing concern in the summer when she seemed to have somewhere dry and warm to go. She never appeared unkempt or worse for wear. But all that might change during the depths of winter.

To make sure she knew she was welcome, I began coaxing her inside, leaving the saucer of milk just inside the front door and waiting while she gazed up at me suspiciously. When she was sure I had no plans to eat her, she would take a few careful steps over the threshold and advance on the milk. We progressed from there to breakfast visits to the kitchen, then a cautious climb on to the couch, and then, very gradually, she explored the rest of the house.

Though I don’t know who her owner is, I’m now very sure she has one. Evidence mounted over the Christmas period. For one thing, there’s no doubt we are not the only ones feeding her. She’s rarely that hungry. Her coat is beautifully sleek. She’s usually still warm when she arrives. She never appears at the door in bad weather but does reappear as soon as the rain stops. In fact, we have never once seen her on a rainy day.

When she leaves us in the evening, she always hops the wall into the garden behind ours. I’ve even see her on the steps leading up to their back door. Of course, it’s possible she’s only a visitor there too and I’ve heard that she frequents another couch down the road. Despite my fears, she’s doing well for herself.

She’s the neighbourhood’s cat and we share custody. But I do wonder, sometimes, about her real owners, the people with legal ownership and responsibility. Where do they think she goes all day? Do they wonder where she is right now? Or, like me, do they just accept the mystery?

Strange and unexpected things can make you feel at home in a new place. For me, it is this cat. She feels like proof that we belong here, as if the street has accepted us, just like the cat. I know the neighbours now. I know their children and their pets. I know where the foxes sleep, where the light falls throughout the seasons, where the crocuses bloom in spring. I know the street and everyone on it. Most of all, I know that I’m home here.

And I’m not sorry the cat stole me.

The Truth Will Out by Rosemary Hennigan is published by Orion and available now

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