As you’ve probably gathered from these entries, there’s been a whole lot of piss, shit and puke generated by the family pets during lockdown. It’s like we’ve been living in a zoo (and that’s even without Lilu and Potato), not to mention all the horrible beasties thrown in (no, YOU just thought you saw another cockroach). But animals always bring such comfort and love, and I wouldn’t change it for the world. I think my need for pets is as much a part of me as my need for food. I love them SO much.
When I was growing up, my aunt and uncle’s pets were extremely important to me. One dog, a beautiful bearded collie called Acre, who used to run away (I refuse to take that personally), was my best friend for a long time. When Jane and I lived with our grandparents, we’d go and stay with Jane and Tony (aunt and uncle) at the weekends. They had two dogs, Acre and Sniff (a border collie), and two Siamese cats, Tiku and Ninn. I was obsessed with them all. My grandparents weren’t pet people, so when the weekend arrived, I was always desperate for some furry love. Jane and Tony also had ducks, geese, a tortoise and four beehives. For me, it was an extremely exciting place to be.
Acre though, she was my emotional support animal. I’d been through a lot with my mum dying, and Acre, as far as I could tell, was the only person who really understood me. I’d spend hours and hours down at the beach with her. I’d tell her everything, and she’d lie down so I could use her as a pillow. She licked me and cuddled me and lost her mind when I walked into a room because she was so excited I was there. It was everything I needed at that time in my life. I loved all of Jane and Tony’s pets (I was a bit dubious about the bees but accepted their role in the family) but Acre, she was my first love.
I then moved on to the cats, specifically Ninn. She was a seal point Siamese and would lie on my chest and rub her cheeks on mine. She had no teeth, but was amazing at saving me from big spiders in my room. I’d hold her up to them and she’d grab them in her mouth, then suck them to death for me as only a real friend could. Dogs and cats were such a huge part of my upbringing, there was no way I wasn’t getting a pet of my own as soon as I felt old enough.
I’ve had Lilu, my Siamese cat, since I was twenty-four. That’s my entire adult life, being responsible for something other than me. That’s a pretty big deal. My uncle begged me not to do it. He warned me of the responsibility, saying I’d never be able to go on holiday. That I’d kill the poor thing by forgetting to feed it. That vet bills were huge. That I’d feel trapped and end up giving her away to an old lady down the street. But I was determined. That love I had from Acre and Ninn needed to be replaced. I wanted it again, and I was willing to sacrifice anything, including £300. Which was at the time, and still is, a lot of money.
Now I’d never have a pet that I didn’t rescue from a shelter, but all that time ago all I wanted was another seal point Siamese. I’d grown up with them, and loved their complicated, bitchy and emotional personalities. I researched and found a breeder in Hastings, who said that they had a litter due any day. The Internet was still a bit of a mystery at that point, and I never trusted that there were actual people on the other end of websites. But one day, I found myself on the way down to Hastings on the train to choose my kitten.
When I got to the house, the smell of cats hit me immediately. There was a husband and wife and three kids, all of whom were smoking. The husband barely looked up from the enormous TV that nearly blew my socks off when I saw it. And the wife took me to the kitchen to see the kittens. There were six of them; they looked like hands.
I cuddled a few, toyed with the idea of a boy because the lady told me how loyal they were, but then I spotted Lilu. She was all awkward, with a big bend in her tail. I picked her up and she scratched me, but I just knew she was my cat. I sat with her for an hour, watching TV with all the smoking kids, then said goodbye. I’d be able to pick her up in around three weeks. I paid them a £100 deposit.
As I came away on the train I knew I’d done the right thing. I had around £350 in my bank account that would cover the cat and train fees. I’d been saving up for a stereo, but as I lived in a flatshare with seven boys, all of whom had stereos, I chose the cat instead. We didn’t need more music.
Back in London I got all the things. A litter tray, little bird toys, catnip, food and flea stuff. By the time I went back for her, I was ready. I’ll never forget bringing her home. Sitting on the train with this overwhelming feeling that I was responsible for this tiny thing’s life. That without me, she would die. That I had to grow up really fast, or my uncle was going to be right. The train pulled into a stop, God knows where, and a young guy got on with a pet rabbit.
‘Is that a rabbit?’ I asked him.
‘Yes, is that a kitten?’
‘Yes,’ I told him.
We sat on the train with his pet rabbit and my pet kitten and talked about how we were going to take them everywhere with us for their whole lives. When we got to London, we said goodbye and pushed the two cases close so that Lilu and his rabbit could sniff noses. It was all very cute and extremely weird. If it had been a movie, we probably would have got married.
I ordered a taxi when I got to London Bridge station, and it took ages to come so I took Lilu to the pub and ordered a beer. The guy on the door kept staring at me. He was a big chap, didn’t look like an animal guy. He came over and I thought he was going to say she wasn’t allowed in, but instead he yelled, ‘FUCK ME, IS THAT A CHIHUAHUA?’
Siamese cats are weird. I knew instinctively I had just purchased a £300 cat that most people would be rude about. I didn’t care, I loved her with every inch of my soul.
Lilu and I have travelled the world together. I’ve remained completely dedicated. Even my uncle admits I’ve done a good job. There have been periods of time where I wasn’t able to look after her myself and have relied on friends to help me. This has gone both well and terribly. A Siamese is a very particular type of cat. She doesn’t just sleep in corners and pop her head up for food. She is loud, demanding and wants to be with you. When she gets stressed, she sounds like a screaming baby. She pees on things. She pukes and poos on the floor. You have to really love cats to take care of an animal like Lilu, and some people I have relied on have absolutely hated her. I’ve had flatmates who didn’t get it at all. In one, I had to keep her litter tray in my bedroom. It’s fair enough, for some people a litter tray in the bathroom is awful and I didn’t argue it. But obviously having it by your bed is even worse. We moved. It’s been, at times, extremely stressful, but I have always done my best. If she was somewhere that wasn’t working out, I would get her out of there quickly. One time she was in LA while I had to go back to London for work for a few months. I weighed up the stress of flying her internationally and thought she’d be better off at home with a friend. It didn’t work out. They did not like each other. The friend kept Lilu in the laundry room and she howled at the top of her lungs to get out. The neighbours complained. Another friend had gone round and told me about it then kindly helped me get Lilu out of America and on a plane to London to be with me. An expense I had been trying to avoid but was happy to do when it needed to be done. I realised then that Lilu was just always better off with her mummy. And since then, I’ve done a pretty good job of keeping her with me and it’s been really lovely. Mostly. She is a massive pain in the ass, but she’s got a good heart. We think. Sometimes. Maybe.
I love Lilu so much. Like, so much more than I should love something that has kept me awake more than my children and literally drenched my house in piss. But taking care of her has been one of the greatest joys of my life. My longest relationship. My most consistent love. The other heartbeat when I was alone. She’s seen me at my best and worst, and for that reason I’d take the terrible meow any day, because if that cat could talk …
The first time I brought Chris home, she tried to sabotage it immediately. He’d stayed the night and things had gone well (AYE AYE WINK WINK), so the next night he stayed too. But when we got home from dinner, Lilu had puked on his side of the bed. Chris was suitably horrified and I was pretty shocked myself. It seemed very deliberate. She clearly knew I liked him and that this interloper was a potential threat to our perfect little life together. But I’m happy to say that these days, they get on very well. Chris likes to pretend he doesn’t love her, but I often walk in on them having a cuddle, and he relentlessly buys her beds. I’ve had to ban her from the bedroom at night because she keeps me awake, but Chris tries to sneak her in. Something about her bitchiness is a challenge; once you crack her and she shows you love, it can be quite addictive.
And then there is Potato. OH POTATO. The sweetest, most loving, cuddliest, kindest, softest most loyal dog. Even my parents, who have said on repeat for most of my life, ‘we hate small dogs’, adore Potato. He isn’t actually that small. More medium-sized. He’s a mix of a few things but looks a lot like a Parson Terrier, basically a tall Jack Russell with Dalmatian spots and actual eyebrows.
Chris and I adopted him a year into our relationship, and we really shouldn’t have done it. Our relationship was fine, but not particularly stable at that early stage. He’d moved into my flat in LA, and him and Lilu were getting on well. I was unemployed and a bit depressed, and I really wanted a dog. There was a pet shop close to our flat that did adoptions, so I convinced Chris that fostering was a good idea. He was on the fence.
We went to the shop to have a look. I immediately fell in love with a little scruffy thing that was cute and cuddly. Chris went to stroke it and it tried to bite him. Not the one. And then – and honestly this is how I remember it – Potato ran along a beam of sunlight that ran the length of the shop floor, and straight into Chris’s arms. Pretty much where he has been ever since.
We were only supposed to foster, but anyone who knows Potato knows that could never happen. Every Saturday I was supposed to take him back to the shop for the adoptions, and every week I would tell the lady that I thought I had found an owner, and we would be spending the day with them at the beach. This went on for a number of weeks. By this time, the love was real. But we knew we really shouldn’t have a dog. I was already broke and financially responsible for a cat. If we kept the dog, it had to be Chris’s decision. One Saturday, we decided we would have to take him back. Chris said he would do it, I was too sad. I went for a walk. As I came towards the shop, I saw Chris on the phone outside. He was in deep conversation. He was talking to a friend of his who had a dog, and the friend said to Chris that all we had to do was give the dog a better life than it had now. Chris agreed he could do that. As I approached, he hung up, looked at me and said, ‘Let’s go get our boy.’ Dear Reader, WE ADOPTED HIM. It was magical – even if he was insane at first. He had the worst separation anxiety and screamed so loud when we went out that the neighbours left horrible notes under the door. He pulled the skirting board off the walls and tore down the curtains. But we got him through it. We loved him and trained him and got his confidence to a point where we could all live our lives. And him and Lilu cuddled. They actually cuddled. Adopting Potato was the greatest thing we ever did. And yes, we have two children but I am not re-writing that sentence.
The pets LOVED lockdown. Having us home all day every day was all they ever wanted. Also, the kids bonded with them in a way they hadn’t before. One night, I thought Art would be sleeping as it was well past 9 p.m., but then I went into his room I found him sitting up cuddling Potato, just like I would have done with Acre when I was his age. I imagined Art having that same feeling I experienced: that your dog is your best friend and there for you no matter what.
Valentine is still quite a way from that and terrorises both Lilu and Potato by chasing them around. But I do keep finding him in Lilu’s bed with his head on her. She’s such a bitch of a cat, but she’s never raised a claw to the kids. She knows she has to put up with them, and she does it with total grace. She’s a nice person really. Sometimes.
Now I am done with having kids, my need for more pets is growing. Chris has said that I can have a giant tortoise when we move house. Art wants to call it Shelly. Val wants a fish[1].
I don’t mind what we get, as long as they love cuddles.