I think I’m experiencing pet rescuer’s remorse

After the death of two cats in two years, Will Gore wonders whether getting a replacement was a wise idea

Claws for concern: our furry friends get away with a lot (Getty/iStock)

They were the best of felines, they were the worst of felines; they brought us light and they brought us darkness; pros and… prolapses. And like so many pet owners, when our previous cats finally pounced off this mortal coil, it wasn’t long before we forgot all their foibles and decided we really must get a replacement.

I have always had cats. The first one we got as a kitten when I was about six, and I settled on the highly original name, Tabby. She was a gentle old soul, who ruined all of my mother’s jumpers by persistently licking her left shoulder, and who had a longstanding friendship with our boy rabbit, Tulip (that name was my brother’s choice).

Tabby’s quiet life was brutally interrupted when we got a rescue cat some years later, who had already been given the very suitable name of Biff. He was a bruiser who gleefully ambushed Tabby at every available opportunity, and who would scratch the rest of us if we got too close: I still bear the scars. In old age he once crapped on my wife-to-be.

Thankfully, my wife is a cat person too, and when we bought our first place together nearly 20 years ago, it wasn’t long before we got a pair of moggies to make it feel like home. They were rescue cats, a mother and her kitten. The former was full of anger; the latter, a timid ball of fluff. Emmeline, the mum, suffered a series of rectal prolapses and needed an expensive op to resolve the situation, but it didn’t lighten her mood much. She took it out on Clemmie, her daughter.

The only downside was the miaow: loud, long and fruity. During the honeymoon period it seemed quite funny, but as time has gone by, it has lost its humour, especially at 5.45 in the morning

Their relationship improved when we sold our tiny flat and moved to the leafy Chilterns. True, they both went through bouts of stress-related cystitis, chucked up regularly on the carpet, and brought in all manner of beast and bird, but we loved their furry faces.

Emmeline’s death, during the first Covid lockdown, was traumatic. Clemmie’s, early last summer, was less drawn out but just as sad.

We felt the loss most keenly in the evenings, when usually a cat would have sat beside us on the sofa. But I couldn’t help feeling a degree of relief too. The furniture and the carpets were no longer being ripped to shreds; we weren’t being woken at stupid o’clock by a cat scratching at our bedroom door; and the reek of cat food no longer lingered in the kitchen. I came to the conclusion we were better off without more pets.

Inevitably, however, the kids disagreed, plaintively telling me how they longed to play with a kitten. Then, last autumn, my wife found a cat rescue centre a few miles away, and signed up for notifications. Every few days, a new mog would pop up on her phone, big-eyed and looking for love.

That is how we ended up with Nora, a 10-month-old tabby with a hint of Bengal. She is, I admit, a beautiful cat, and gentle too. For the first few weeks after we took her in, the children dutifully did as they said they would, running around with pieces of string for Nora to chase. We all delighted at her instinctive desire to settle down on people’s laps, and I was glad to see that she didn’t sharpen her claws on the arms of the sofa.

Despite her more undesirable habits, Nora has Will under the paw (Will Gore)

The only downside was the miaow: loud, long and fruity. During the honeymoon period it seemed quite funny, but as time has gone by, it has lost its humour, especially at 5.45 in the morning. I’m pretty sure she must be waking the neighbours, let alone everyone in our house. She’s intensely greedy too, practically snatching the children’s tea from under their noses, or hauling in snacks from the garden. I imagine Chris Packham’s disapproval and feel the guilt rising in me.

I experience pet rescuer’s regret most strongly when I’m scrubbing the bloody remains of yet another mouse off the landing carpet. If she starts going for the frogs in our pond, I might send her back to be re-rescued by someone else.

But of course, I won’t, because the big eyes and the soft, strokable tummy are just too cute. Anyway, she’s one of us now and the thought that she might share our lives for the next 15 or 20 years is a genuinely lovely one. Most of the time.