I desperately wanted another cat but I was living in a rented flat with no outdoor space. Working full time, it didn’t make any sense for me to have one, but I couldn’t help how I felt.
That was when I got to know about Battersea’s fostering scheme. It included hand-rearing kittens, if necessary, and when I heard about it, I put my name forward as a staff volunteer. On the call list, we were all waiting and ready to take on any new cats that needed a temporary home or extra care.
It was a blistering bank holiday Monday when my phone rang. I answered and listened as one of the cattery staff told me of a situation that had come up. ‘We’ve had a litter of eight kittens come in. Their mother abandoned them and the owner doesn’t know what to do. They all need hand-rearing. Can you help?’ The kittens were only two weeks old and needed feeding every two hours, day and night.
I said: ‘Of course. I’ll be there as quick as I can.’
When I arrived, security buzzed me in and I went to the second floor of the cattery where mums and kittens are usually housed. I was shown to a pod with eight tiny kittens in it. I was given two black ones and a black-and-white one to take home, along with kitten formula and a box of other things I’d need. One of the black ones was so weak and tiny she couldn’t hold her head up.
The foster co-ordinator said: ‘It’s very possible that that little one won’t make it through the night. She’s the smallest of them all.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
When I arrived home, it was already time for the kittens’ next feed. I made up the formula and, using a plastic syringe, I fed them. The littlest one barely took any milk but I persevered throughout the night.
Next day, the kittens came to work with me and I handed them over to the veterinary nurses, who would take over looking after them in the clinic for the day. Other staff, who also had kittens from the litter, brought them in each day and they were kept as a group, with little tags on them to tell them all apart.
At lunchtime, I checked in on them, and after work, I took them home. The tiny one was managing to feed a little and was just about getting by.
A few days later, I was advised to hand over one of my three to a colleague who had just one. It’s best to keep young kittens in pairs for company, so I gave up one of the bigger two. We weren’t meant to get attached to our foster kittens but it was hard not to, and I already felt an affinity with the tiny one. I’d also been advised not to give the kittens any names, but I reckoned a nickname was OK …
I called the little black one Special, because she really was. Even though she was so tiny, she wasn’t giving up and had so much fight in her. The other one, black-and-white, the biggest of the litter, became known as Beast for her size and matching appetite.
At bedtime, I set two-hourly alarms and woke to feed Special and Beast in the dead of night, just like you would a baby, except these babies needed only three millilitres of kitten milk. I encouraged them to go to the toilet by rubbing wet cotton wool on their bottoms and bathing them in warm water.
Steadily, the kittens grew stronger and their feeds went to every three hours, then every four, and they were drinking more and more milk.
After a month, I was able to start Special and Beast on solid food. To make the move easier for them, I added a little kitten milk to the food to make the smell more familiar to them and encourage them to eat it. Like a proud new mum, I took them with me wherever I went in their carrier and they met lots of new people.
Although they were both growing stronger, worry was gnawing away at me.
When the time came, how would I bring myself to give them back? Hand-rearing them, I was falling in love with them and, naturally, they were very attached to me too. By now I had been allowed to give them proper names to help identify them in preparation for rehoming. As Battersea litters are each allocated a letter from the alphabet and these were the ‘O Kittens’, I had renamed Beast, ‘Olive’, and Special, ‘Ophelia’.
I began asking my friends if they would be interested in taking on the kittens so at least I might be able to see them from time to time after they were rehomed. They were sympathetic but no one could help.
I began to feel desperate. What was I going to do?
I took the kittens to my parents’ home in Shropshire one weekend, and as Mum held them, I said: ‘They’re so lovely, don’t you want to keep them?’
Mum shook her head. ‘With your sister’s baby here now, I want to be able to visit her whenever I need to without worrying about what to do with any cats I might have. It’s not the right time for us.’
I tried everything to talk her round but even tears didn’t help. Mum wouldn’t budge and I knew it was a lost cause.
Meanwhile, the kittens were getting bigger and running around my flat. Already, they were close to outgrowing it – they were literally climbing the walls. At eight weeks old they would have their injections and be ready to go out … and be rehomed.
It was a ticking time bomb hanging over my head.
One night, after a long day at work, I came home with them and, after feeding them, sat with them sprawled around me on the sofa. I looked around the tiny flat I called home and decided it was time to make some serious changes. I’d been saving up to buy a house for a long time and now I had two perfect reasons to get myself into gear. Next day, I made arrangements to speak to a mortgage adviser and made an appointment at the bank. After much discussion they agreed to give me a mortgage. Days later I went to the cattery and asked if it was possible to place the kittens on hold for me: I was actively looking for a house or a flat with a garden so that I could keep them. In the meantime I’d continue to foster them. They agreed.
I knew I wouldn’t find a property overnight, but I wasn’t going to waste any time. I signed up to every estate agent I could find, and every Saturday I viewed seven or eight properties in the hope of finding the perfect place.
In every single one, I thought: Where would the cat beds go? What about the cat flap? Is it on a main road? Is the garden suitable?
Nothing was quite right until I came across a little house in Plumstead, Greenwich. As I flicked through the pictures of a 1930s house, I felt a tingle spread up my fingers and into my arms – this was the one.
I called the agent. ‘I’d like to see this house, please.’
‘I’m sorry, but an offer has already been accepted on it. It’s no longer available.’
I was gutted. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be. Maybe I wasn’t going to find a house or make these two gorgeous kittens my own. Maybe it was all just a pipe-dream that was way out of my reach. I was at a loss for what to do.
A week later, at work, my mobile rang. It was the estate agent in Plumstead. He said: ‘The offer has fallen through on that house and I wanted to give you first refusal to view it.’
I jumped at the chance and booked in for a viewing that weekend.
As soon as I walked in, I smiled. The house was homely and warm, just like my nan and granddad’s. It was very old-fashioned, with nooks and crannies filled with trinkets and treasures. It needed a lot of work, but I could see its potential and charm. Outside, it had a big garden with a kitchen door that led straight into it – perfect for a cat flap. In fact, the whole house was absolutely perfect for the kittens and me.
I didn’t need to think about it. There and then, I put in an offer, and hours later the owners called to tell me it had been accepted. I was absolutely elated.
‘Thank you so much,’ I said.
I returned home to the kittens and scooped them into my arms. ‘I’ve found our new home! You’re not going to believe what we’ve got. You’re so lucky, you two!’
Now all I had to do was convince the rehoming team I was right for the kittens.
On Monday morning, I went to straight the cattery and made my case for keeping them both. I told the rehomer: ‘I’ve bought a house with a garden so that hopefully I can keep Olive and Ophelia.’ I was so tantalizingly close to my dream that my eyes filled with tear
s and my voice cracked as I said: ‘Can I please keep them?’
She could see I was getting upset so she put her hand on my shoulder. ‘I’ll have a chat with the team and we’ll get back to you as quickly as we can.’
I returned to my office and tried to get on with my work but it was so distracting and nerve-racking waiting for the cattery’s answer. Every time my phone rang I jumped. Hours later, the call I was waiting for finally came: ‘There’s no question. Of course you can keep the kittens.’
I was so happy I burst into tears at my desk.
Later, I flipped through my calendar to mark down all the important dates and realized it was exactly a year to the day that I’d started working at Battersea, and today I had become the proud new owner of two gorgeous Battersea kittens: Olive and Ophelia.
It was some time before I was able to move into my new home. Three months later, as Christmas approached, I began to pack my things. Olive and Ophelia – I call her Ophie for short – were little terrors, constantly in and out of the boxes in the flat, covering them with kitten bite marks. Every roll of wrapping paper and Christmas card had kitten teeth holes in it but I loved their mischief.
The knowledge that they were staying with me permanently made me so happy that they could have chewed through everything I owned and I wouldn’t have minded.
And, by now, their personalities were really shining through.
Olive was quite needy: the moment she saw me she would climb up my trouser legs to get as close to my face as possible. She liked to wrap herself round my neck like a scarf, rubbing my face, or would sit on my shoulder as I walked around, like a little parrot cat. Ophelia was much more independent and would happily disappear on her own, either amusing herself with a toy or climbing into places she shouldn’t.
In many ways they were like chalk and cheese but, unlike every other cat I’d known, they had both developed a love of water – they would jump under the shower with me or sit in the sink asking for the taps to be turned on. This was probably as a result of the warm baths I’d given them when I’d hand-reared them and was just one of their quirky little tricks.
I’d also managed to teach them both to give high fives for treats and took much joy in showcasing their talents to anyone who visited.
After I’d finished packing, I placed the kittens in their carrier and drove to my parents’ home for Christmas. My sister, Emily, her husband, James, and their baby, Miles, came too and we had a lovely time at Mum and Dad’s. Their house is in the Shropshire countryside and at that time of year it’s gorgeous. The fields have frosted tips and the rolling hills are stunning in the low winter sunshine.
Inside, the log fire was blazing, the Christmas tree was twinkling and we were enjoying a very special Christmas together: this year we had three new babies in the family – Miles, Olive and Ophelia.
On Christmas Day, we woke early to get dinner started, then had breakfast and sat down to open our presents. Emily and I passed out the presents from under the tree until each of us had a pile of gifts in front of us – even the kittens had their own little stack. We took turns opening them one at a time and the kittens raced around us, jumping in and out of boxes.
Miles, who was six months old, giggled hysterically whenever he heard wrapping paper tearing, and the kittens pounced on every scrap. They opened their gifts too, and since we’d soon be moving into our new home they received brand new matching bowls and beds, as well as treats, and toys to play with once we’d arrived.
It was a magical time for our family, filled with the joys of new life and new beginnings, and I knew in my heart that the year ahead was going to be a very special one. I’d taken on a mammoth task with the new house, as every inch of it needed redecorating, but it all felt very grown-up and satisfying.
After we’d opened our gifts, we had Christmas dinner – the kittens couldn’t believe their luck when they were treated to turkey titbits. At home they only had dry cat food and treats – I’m vegetarian – so they’d never tasted meat before. If the look on their faces was anything to go by, they were in kitty heaven.
Later, we settled in front of the telly to watch Paul O’Grady: For the Love of Dogs at Christmas. Along with other people from work, I was remotely looking after Battersea’s social media. While I tapped away on the laptop, answering viewers’ questions about the animals on the show, Olive was wrapped around my neck and Ophelia was lying beside me. With Battersea’s supporters online, I posted behind-the-scenes facts and extra pictures for them to enjoy. It was heart-warming to be able to share the extra information with the viewers – they cared so much about what became of the animals at Battersea. I was really chuffed to have two of my very own right there with me.
On Boxing Day, I said my goodbyes and, with the kittens in their carrier, set out on the long journey home. This time, we weren’t going to a small flat, but to our new house in south-east London. The previous owners had kindly left me quite a bit of furniture, so when we went inside, I set the carrier on the sofa in the living room and opened its door.
Olive bounded out and began jumping around in excitement and exploring her new surroundings. Ophie followed more slowly and carefully sniffed around.
As I set about unpacking, the kittens were leaping in and out of the boxes again, leaving fresh toothmarks on everything. There were many times I stopped what I was doing, looked at them and our new home and choked back tears. They had made me take responsibility and move forward with my life. I was no longer dreaming of owning my own home and having cats: I had done it.
Soon the kittens were spayed, and a month later, they were ready to go outside. Before I let them out, though, I went into the Battersea shop at work and bought a cat flap. I was no dab hand at DIY but I was determined to fit it myself. I banged and I sawed and I screwed it into place in the kitchen door. Then I stood up and grinned. ‘That looks straight, doesn’t it?’ The kittens rubbed themselves around my legs. ‘I’ll take that as a yes, shall I?’
I took a picture of the cat flap and texted it to Mum. She texted back: Well done, girls!
Next, I popped a collar each on Olive and Ophelia – their first – then a harness. One at a time, we set off for a stroll around the garden. It wasn’t the usual way to let your cats out but I was so worried about them disappearing that I couldn’t bring myself to let them out on their own yet in case they went too far and got lost.
They were fascinated by the outside, and next time, I let them go free. The hours ticked by and I waited nervously. I was like a worried mum the first time her teenager goes out for a night on the tiles. Except my babies were kittens and they weren’t painting the town red, they were snooping around our neighbours’ gardens, literally just metres away.
At dinnertime I stepped into the garden, hoping they’d be waiting for me, but there was no sign of them. I waited for a few minutes, then shouted: ‘Olive! Ophie!’
When I heard the worry in my voice, I thought: Oh, God. I’ve become one of those really annoying cat people!
With a rustle to the left of me, one gorgeous little face appeared, then another. The kittens raced towards me and, after a quick stroke, dashed inside for food.
I came to learn quite quickly that Ophelia was very good at disappearing on her own. They were friendly too, because they’d been handled by me and many others in the first eight weeks of their lives. That is by far the best period to socialize cats, and my two were no exception. They were so friendly to any visitors and would happily stop by neighbours, pottering in their gardens, for a cuddle. I felt like a proud parent.
Whenever I got home from work, I whistled as I made my way down the road to the house, and Olive and Ophelia would come rushing out to escort me home.
If people asked what it was like having the kittens, I told them categorically: ‘I’ve never been happier.’
And it was true.
This time last year, if someone had said I’d be in my own house with two cats, I wouldn’t have believed them. But Olive and Op
helia came along and changed my life.
Some time later, I looked at their files at work to find out exactly when the kittens had been born and discovered something amazing. The kittens’ birthday was 5 August 2013 – the very day we lost Phoebe. It made me go all funny when I read that. It was as if those kittens were meant to be mine.
11. Another Heartbeat in the House
It was early Sunday morning but in our house everyone was already awake. As we prepared to go to the stables to see our horses, four paws pounded impatiently by the front door. Our Boxer, Lenny, couldn’t wait to get out. As soon as the door was opened, he was off like a shot.
As I watched my wife, Amanda, my daughter, Megan, and Lenny disappear down the road, near our home in Reading, Berkshire, a funny feeling swept over me.
To look at our handsome Lenny, you’d never guess that a dark cloud hung over him. Lenny was living with aspergillosis, a tissue-destroying fungal infection. It was a life-limiting disease, which caused him to have visible symptoms, such as a runny or bleeding nose, most days. He was heavily medicated to keep it, and his pain, under control but we all knew that, one day, it would claim him.
I pushed away the thought that, sooner rather than later, he’d be gone. That Sunday, and many more weekends to come, we continued our usual routine with Lenny because we were determined to give him the best quality of life with plenty of love, care and attention.
Time passed, and when Lenny was six, he started suffering seizures, a late-stage symptom of the disease. We took him to the Cambridge Animal Hospital, which had provided him with excellent care throughout his life. Amanda and I said our tearful goodbyes to our faithful, gentle giant of a dog.
When we returned home, there was a deafening silence. Worse, our home was filled with all of Lenny’s things, many of which had barely been used – some were still brand new. One Saturday morning, not long after we had lost him, I boxed up all of his belongings and we drove to nearby Battersea Dogs & Cats Home in Old Windsor.
Christmas at Battersea: True Stories of Miracles and Hope Page 16
