Page 16 of One Summer

‘Then you take him. He knows you. He adores you, Lindy.’

‘How can I have a cat? I’m out all day.’

What with the office and my tiny room in a shared flat, I’m not in a position to offer a stable home to anything, except perhaps a pet cockroach.

‘He’s very self-sufficient. He doesn’t require much company. Cats are teenagers, dogs are toddlers. But I hear you. It’s a no. Fine. There’s no need to feel bad about it, Lindy.’

Wow.

‘I don’t feel bad about it. You’re the one who should be feeling bad. He’s your responsibility and you’re just ditching him. I mean, this shouldn’t surprise me, given recent events, but still. You’re everything he knows.’

He’s silent. I can just imagine the double eyeroll he’s doing now. First one way and then the other.

‘You’re anthropomorphising him. Nemo will bounce back. Cats are very hardy beasts. They’re not sentimental. Like I said: they’re not dogs.’

I can feel myself beginning to get tearful again. Abandoning a friend – no… a comrade. It’s just plain wrong. But I can’t make myself responsible for the hideous choices of a grown man. Ultimately, it’s his cat and therefore his decision.

‘The answer is no, Max.’

He sighs again and hangs up the phone.

I sit on another bench, and stare at the river.

Whatever choice I make will be wrong, but I have to make one anyway.

Fifteen

Tossers

The answer is no. It has to be no. I am not set up for cat life. I am not a cat-safe space. Unlike Max, I don’t have access to a garden. I don’t even have a balcony. Nemo would get no fresh air at all. He wouldn’t even get to swipe at a butterfly. He’d be unhappy with me.

But then, why can’t I stop thinking about him? Why do I keep tossing and turning, over and over?

There’s one moment, around 3 a.m. when I’m certain that I have to adopt Nemo, because the guilt of rejecting him will strip joy from my entire existence. By 4 a.m., I’ve done a U-turn and am back to committing to a cat-free life. No litter trays to clean out, no furniture covered in hair and dander. No scratches to the eyeball. But, then again, no cat curled up on the armchair to come home to. What was it my mum used to say?

A cat fills a home with its quiet presence.

I adore that quiet presence, the essence of cosiness and calm.

Jesus, I’m losing my mind as well as my sleep.

I wonder if Max is losing sleep tonight?

No, he isn’t. I bet he’s already in bed with Greta, exhausted but satisfied, Nemo shut in the bathroom, miaowing plaintively, or most likely asleep, and having no idea it’s his last night in his home.

At 5.45 a.m., I pull myself out of bed because sleep is just an illusion and the reality of it will never come to me, so I might as well go for a run.

I have to put Nemo out of my mind. He’s not my problem. He never was. I’m inserting myself into a situation that has nothing to do with me. He’s just a cat I used to pat, sitting on a bathmat.

Oh, dear god, I’m cracking up. It’s finally happened – I knew it would eventually and now’s the time.

The run somewhat soothes my nervous system by draining me of some of my twitchy adrenaline. When I’ve run my three miles, I sit on a park bench and make my final decision. I have to let Nemo go to a better owner. It’s the only sensible choice.

Sixteen

Decision

It’s nine-thirty when I arrive at Battersea Dogs & Cats Home. I couldn’t risk being late, so I left early and waited in reception with some very suspicious front desk staff, who – after asking me if I had an appointment, and my explaining that I didn’t, and didn’t need one, either – proceeded to give me a wide berth, clearly baffled as to my intentions. I could have waited in the car, but I didn’t trust myself not to look at my phone and miss Max and Nemo’s entrance, because that would be exactly my luck, and once Nemo is in the system, there’ll be no getting him out of it, and I wouldn’t have a shot of passing all the strict adopter requirements.

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