I missed keeping her alive, which was one of the things I was most proud of in my entire life. I would do anything for that cat, often sacrificing my own need for food for hers when I was in my 20’s and broke. I have lost people in my life and sadly I know grief and its vicious claws all too well, but Lilu’s death was different. The world hadn’t lost someone, I had. I felt quite isolated. The words “it was just a cat” were what I dreaded people saying behind my back when I couldn’t stop talking about it no matter how hard I tried. Although my husband was saddened, there was no one who felt the same way as I did, and so I dealt with her death in the way that felt right for me and no one else. I freeze-dried her, a process in which she was dehydrated using extremely low temperatures over the course of 10 months, keeping her perfect to look exactly as she did the day she died, and now she sits happily, but 100% dead, in a chair in my dining room . See, I told you I was a cat lady. I’m not a “crazy cat lady”, though. Oh no. According to society’s imagination, this is a sparky woman in her last years who lives alone with one or more cats. She is, by all accounts, quite strange and a bit sad. It’s all wrapped up in society’s inability to accept that a woman can be satisfied without a man. It is meant as an insult and is used in a derogatory way to suggest that someone is unlovable or perhaps even selfish for choosing cats over children. If, of course, that was a choice he had to make. What nonsense. Lilou and I once lived in a luxury flat in central London with a friend whose parents were my landlords. I could never afford the rent when I lived there. It was humbling, even though they were always very kind and in many cases gave me the extra time I needed to raise some cash. I remember a friend who came to lend me £20. He had come to me because I could not afford to go to him. I told him I needed money for food but I spent £16 on junk and kibble. With the rest I took beans and bread and accepted every invitation to dinner that came my way. I would watch the cat eat and feel so proud of myself. I had done it before. I had kept her alive. No matter what failure I felt in so many aspects of my life, Lilu never missed a meal. That was pretty impressive in my 20s. No matter how much of a failure I felt, Lilu was never hungry In the end I had to leave, much to the delight of my roommates who never liked the waste tray in the bathroom. I moved into a warehouse conversion in Hackney where my best friend, Louise, lived in a curtained section of the living room. Lilu and I lived there with Lou for months. Lou slept on the right, me on the left and the cat in the middle with her head on the pillow. Lou supplied us both while I did what I could to get paid as a writer, eventually getting in front of the camera and appearing in documentaries for the BBC. Lilou starred in all of them. She was my loyal sidekick. Part of my identity. I took her to the location and fed her tuna. We had made it. I ended up moving to Los Angeles for work, where I still live 15 years later. After an initial six-month trial where Lilu stayed with friends in London, she came too. We were very happy in our little apartment in West Hollywood. Life was a dream for her until the rare occasion I had to return home to the UK. So I left her with a friend who rented the apartment while I was gone for a few months. What seemed like a good plan where he got reduced rent but had to take care of the cat, turned out to be a total disaster. They didn’t go up. My friend couldn’t deal with Lilu’s Siamese dramas and the way she cried all night because her mother had abandoned her. It became clear that the deal was off, and so Lilu boarded a plane to London, where we fell into each other’s arms like long-distance lovers finally reunited in a terrible romcom. That’s when I made a deal with her: if I go, you come too. I kept my word. It was in Los Angeles that I met my now husband, Chris. Lilou shivered on the side of the bed the night after staying there for the first time. She could be terrible and full of vitriol when she thought my attention might be taken away from her. It was a rough start to their relationship, but they worked it out. I would say they loved each other deeply. On our wedding day, in the car on the way to our ceremony, Chris suddenly said, “You didn’t say goodbye to Lilou!” And so, we’re back. She thought it was important that I thanked her for my lonely years, because she had really taken care of me too. You can imagine that moment. I thanked my cat and then told my husband that he really was the only man I could have married. At the reception we sipped whiskey from a giant ice sculpture in the shape of Lilu. As it melted away, the symbolism of my celibacy disappearing was not lost on me. It was a happy transition. Lilu and I were ready to open our hearts to the idea of a family. We sipped whiskey from a giant ice sculpture of the cat Next came a dog and then two children. Despite being a tough old bag, he greeted them all with love. Working with me as I prepared to leave for the hospital with my first, then sitting quietly on the floor as I delivered my second at home in our bed. The midwife said she had never known an animal behave so well during a birth. I was as proud of her as I was of my beautiful baby boy. When he was outside and things were quiet, he jumped up and sat on my feet, where he remained almost constantly as I nursed and watched terrible TV for the next few months. Since Lilou died, I have rescued two cats: a brother and sister named Myrtle and Boo, whom I love so much it almost hurts. That brings my household to the grand total of two cats (or two and a half, if you count the dead one in the dining room), two dogs, two kids, and a husband. In addition to the children and husband, I have big plans to expand the family even further. I love how pets make a sense of home and the community you enter when you get one. There is no friendlier place than a vet’s waiting room. People chat and smile at each other’s angry babies. They ask race, age. They make cute “ahhh” sounds when the condition is explained. They coo and ask if they can touch them. That just doesn’t work in the human world: if someone asked to touch my child, they would get a very different response. And the scene is quite different in the doctor’s waiting room. No one makes eye contact. We study out-of-date magazines, repelled by each other’s problems. Animals bring people together. Cats make people who might otherwise be lonely, not alone. There is nothing crazy about a woman just because she lives alone with cats. Well, that’s not what I see anyway. I see someone with a lot of love in their heart who chooses to care for a cat who needs her as long as she needs him. To me, it’s a sign of a person with a huge heart, not a cold one. Unless she has a dead one in her dining room, of course. Then she’s probably as boring as they come. Cat Lady by Dawn O’Porter is published by HarperCollins for £18.99 in hardback, as well as ebook and audio. Buy a copy for £16.52 at guardianbookshop.com
