It was September 2016 when my parter and I walked into our local Cats Protection shelter looking to adopt our first pet together. There were young families buzzing around the last remaining kittens, but my attention was immediately drawn to a two-year-old grey tabby with her peach nose edged in black. I scooped her up into my arms and knew instantly it could only be her. She oozed affection; her purr radiated through my soul. She’d just been returned to the shelter following a failed adoption because she didn’t get on with the family’s other cat. The sanctuary volunteers were hesitant to let her go, but finally decided she could come home with us. Nala had found her forever home.
It didn’t take long to understand exactly what Nala’s previous family meant when they said she didn’t get on with other cats. After tentatively exploring her new home, Nala spotted Aslan, a big ginger tom, through the patio windows. Her tail puffed up, her fur stood on end, and she launched herself at the window again and again, howling and shrieking. Even for someone who had grown up with cats, this was something new. And it didn’t stop there. Nala hated other cats, especially toms. Next door’s cat once found himself cornered in our living room and wet himself in a panic as he ducked and dived to get past Nala. He learned not to come around after that.
For our first couple of years together we were living in rental accommodation; we’d adopted Nala without the landlord’s permission. We had asked, and she said no – but we got Nala anyway. The lack of consent made for some interesting inspections. All traces of Nala had to be removed: bowls, beds and toys were shoved in the boot of the car, Nala was let out into the garden. The only trouble was, she’d sit at the patio doors for hours, silently mewing as strangers inspected her home.
“No, she’s not ours,” we’d insist. “I think she must live next door … Who knows what she wants?”
It had nothing to do with the fact it was 5pm and she was ready for her tea.
Whether she was stealing aloo gobi straight from my plate (yes, really) or stalking pasta she’d caught from the pan, she was full of mischief. Everything about her was joyous, every moment precious. I loved everything about her. I still do. Her leopard print belly and her humongous panther paws … even the way she bit her claws filled me with delight. And God, did she love us back. There were head boops in abundance, and the frequency of her purr was a tonic to the struggles of everyday life. Every ounce of her being was full to the brim with this immeasurable tenderness. For someone like me, who often finds the world too overwhelming to navigate, Nala made existing feel possible. When my gran passed away – the first bereavement I’d experienced – Nala comforted me for days. As I laid in bed, she laid by my side, her head in my hand, my heart in hers.
Losing Nala in 2019 was the most traumatic experience I have been through – a loss I am still unable to describe. A whole chunk of my being gone. I recently learned that I am autistic, and I’ve been reflecting a lot on my visceral connection with Nala. She was more than just the pet I’ll never forget; she was a part of me.
