‘Oh, are you trying to sleep?’

‘Evie’ was our ginger sweetheart. Quiet, relaxed, but always playful at 2am, like any self respecting cat. Rescued from an illegal breeding farm by our local veterinarian, we met Evie on a regular trip to their clinic with our dog. My two year old daughter held a tiny Evie under her arms, and when they looked at me with their matching green eyes, I knew this kitten would be coming home to live with us.

Eighteen months later a colleague announced in a panic that her cat has unexpectedly had kittens and she needed help finding people to adopt them. The colleague stated the kittens were eight weeks old and ready to be collected. I immediately volunteered and a tiny black and white long haired fluff ball was the newest member of our family. I took ‘Pebbles’ (now known affectionately as ‘Pebbanush’), to our veterinarian to be checked over, microchipped and vaccinated. The vet assessed Pebbles with concern, she told us there was no way Pebbles was eight weeks old. The assessment showed a three or four week old kitten, with fleas, worms, and concern over her ability to thrive.

Armed with information from the vet, we took Pebbles home, ready to do the work to help her thrive. We fed her specialised kitten formula, didn’t leave her alone in the house, and she could often be found being carried around inside a shirt pocket, or sitting in the top of my bra. Evie was besotted with the new addition and immediately adopted Pebbles as her own. The two were inseparable, quiet, soft, lovely cats. Either could be found at any time on a comfy surface in our home, one of the kids beds, a couch, a pile of laundry.

In late 2019 Evie started behaving strangely. She would sit on top of the microwave, make new ‘miaow’ sounds, and we weren’t sure she was eating. With two cats, it’s really hard to know if they’re both getting food, water, and using the litter. Investigations revealed Evie had a very rare auto-immune disorder, the first case our vet had ever come across. Treatments began, but it was too late for our ginger girl, and she tragically died two days later. The shock our house felt was immense. Our healthy, vibrant cat left us so quickly, we weren’t prepared. Pebbles became more and more depressed. She would barely eat, and would spend her days sleeping alone. As Christmas approached, and our sadness had not let up, we made a trip to our nearby Animal Welfare Shelter.

The kitten section had eight bouncy kitten-monsters, leaping, crashing and playing. A little calico lad took our attention as he gnawed on the fence links. We climbed into the enclosure to interact with them and were met with nibbles, tiny claws, and many giggles from my children. A brief image of me swooping up all eight kittens and taking them home crossed my mind. We were informed that male calico cats were a rare genetic anomaly, and the squishy-faced fence gnawing champ was chosen. I could have sworn my kids eyes were shaped like love hearts when we picked him up to bring him home.

‘Sir Winston the Fifth’ was introduced carefully to Pebbles. She was very wary at first, unsure of how to manage the insanely energetic, boundless energy, from this tiny white-brown maniac. Winston is the opposite personality to both Pebbles and Evie. Where they would quietly sit next to you while you read, Winston attacks any moving body part or clothing, without warning. Hair hanging over the back of the couch is one of his favourite toys. Winston demands tinned food as soon as anyone enters the kitchen, we’re constantly saying ‘It’s not snack time, Winston!’ He shouts to be let out the door, then in the door, then out the door. If we’re having chicken, Winston is having chicken. Feet under the covers in bed are more toys for him to attack, and he still settles himself to sleep by ‘making biscuits and drinking blanket milk’ (clawing and suckling on a blanket).

Winston is our ‘covid-kitten’. Brought to our home just before lockdowns hit Australia, he has developed social anxiety whenever we have visitors to our home. He’s yet to be left alone for more than a few hours, and greets us with abundant enthusiasm whenever we get home.

Our house and clothes are always covered in car hair (we keep a clothes brush in the car and the house at all times). Our sleep is broken by middle-of-the-night zoomies. Our couch and chairs are clawed from deviant Winston’s scratching behaviour, and I’m greeted each morning with a cat on my chest, miaowing in my face. Despite all these, our family is obsessed. Our cats make us laugh, smile, feel peace and joy, every day. They’re our companions, our comfort, and heat packs on cold nights. We’re constantly having to talk ourselves out of adopting more.