Vicky Ewan: First steps to becoming a pet-owning family

I have always thought of myself as a cat person. My brother and I were thrilled as much as incredulous when our parents announced that a long-held dream could come true: we could welcome a kitten into our home.
This was an unprecedented submission: for years, we had longed for a pet of our own, regarding with envy peers who had a plethora of furry friends and yet who seemed largely indifferent to the joys and privileges afforded by animal husbandry; my brother and I were anything but lackadaisical about the prospect of becoming a pet-owning family.
For some time before he acquiesced to our beseeching, my dad had suggested that I visualise having a pet. I tried, I really did, conjuring a fluffy, white creature named Snowball to be my ersatz cat.
I made every effort to see him at my side (or, rather, feet), but I kept forgetting where I had left him. The experiment was not, shall we say, a roaring success.
Part of the problem, I suspect, was that I had very little experience of cat behaviour and was unable accurately to predict how they should conduct themselves; poor Snowball had little chance of survival in the infertile ground of my creative consciousness.
Still, the failure in no way diminished my enthusiasm for the real thing, and once our fervent wish was granted we began to explore our options. We heard through a friend that there was a local litter of kittens poised for rehoming; our appetites whetted, we paid a visit to select our new addition.
As soon as we set eyes upon the ginger scrap of fluff in the corner, we knew he had to be ours. We made arrangements to pick him up in a few days’ time, and returned home, brimful with excitement, to prepare.
We awaited the fateful day on tenterhooks of happiness. Fudge, for so he was named, padded into our home and straight into our hearts, captivating us with his irresistible combination of gorgeousness and naughtiness.
He was a beautiful cat, half-Persian, with the softest coat of marmalade stripes and amber eyes.
His paws were huge and his purrs huger, deafening us with their ready intensity as he snuggled into our arms.
He was a mischievous little soul, too, liking nothing better than to conceal himself beneath the flaps of material skirting the bottom of our sofa and lying in wait, then flinging himself from his hiding place with audacious attitude to startle anyone entering the lounge.
Though we lacked context, we soon realised we had found a perfect pet; he was by turns docile, playful, and impish, and always affectionate. Tragically, we lost him in a road accident not long after moving home when he was still a young cat, much to the whole family’s distress. Subsequent cats were equally adored, but notably less reciprocal with their adulation; we inevitably found ourselves having to work hard for their attention.
When I turned 21, my husband-to-be surprised me with an eight-week-old black and white kitten, transported home in a cardboard box by bus, to the amusement of his fellow passengers.
Lou-lou was an absolute treasure: frolicsome, spirited and always happy to cuddle up in front of the television. There is no doubt that she saw herself as the number one in our lives, to the extent that when our first daughter arrived on the scene, she haughtily marked her territory by spraying inside the house.
Thankfully, that was an isolated incident, and she soon adapted to playing second fiddle. As more children toddled along, she manifested supreme tolerance, submitting to their often heavy-handed affections with good grace.
She survived both a topple from an upper window in her youth and a prolonged separation when she failed to appear in time for a house move (she was returned after six months by our former landlord, much to our joy).
She seemed invincible, a constant in our house and lives, eternally youthful. It was only when a visitor who worked with animals remarked upon seeing her that she must be an old cat that we realised, at 17, she had indeed lost more than the first bloom of youth. A short while after that, she became suddenly infirm; a trip to the vet confirmed that her time was drawing to an end and that her suffering would become chronic.
The only kindness was to have her put to sleep, and we made the devastating decision with the heaviest of hearts. Since then, two brother cats have crept into our affections.
No matter how much we love them, though, there is someone in our household whose love trumps all: our adoration will never equal that of Miss Pup for her feline brothers.
She is hyper aware of their every move, touchingly desperate for their esteem, and undoubtedly delighted that their initial, instinctive fear of this usurper has gradually moved through indifference to something akin to love.
Certainly, the kisses regularly exchanged between canine and felines are mutually sought. I am rather beginning to suspect that Miss Pup may be a cat person, too.