I was living in Sydney, Australia, with my (then) girlfriend. Everything in my life was grand: I had the career of my dreams, a nice house in a great neighbourhood, my health, a future. But my job took me all over the world, which meant no pets. Being away for up to fourteen days at a time, it never seemed fair to leave them for that long, so I did without.
Until one Saturday morning, when I came home, and the ex said she had a surprise for me. It turned out to be two six-week old kittens she had saved from death row. One was white tortoise, the other was a silver tabby.
Giving her credit, she had been listening. When we went for walks, I was forever stopping for cats. I would pet them as long as they allowed, and generally ooh and ahh over whatever strange (and stray) moggy crossed our path. At one point I even said that the thing I wanted most in life was a pet cat.
So at least she was being considerate at that point of the relationship.
It's as clear as today, when the two furry ones jumped out of the box. They were so small, and as scared as anything. I had just had a shower, and was still in my robe, but the first thing the tortoiseshell did was to scamper up my leg and cuddle into my arms.
From that day on, my life was never the same.
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