I stayed with my (ex)husband for 5 extra years because I didn't want to leave my cat...
I stayed for love, but it most definitely wasn't for my husband. It was for a little fluff ball who thought she was half human and half dog.
Hi there - don’t forget that you can listen to this post if you prefer. I’ve recorded my own voiceover so if you would like you can just hit play and enjoy my dulcet tones aka wonky Watford accent!
I’ve always loved animals. Whether it was a goldfish called Sooty (he was white!) that I brought home in a plastic bag from a school fete. Or the hamster who did a Houdini by escaping his living quarters and turning up in the bath. Not just the bathroom, but the actual bath! Or another we nicknamed Heinz 57, due to her multiple personalities, who had a death wish when she leapt out of Mums hand and into the open cutlery draw. Amazingly she was unharmed, before anyone worries.
And then there was the collection of rabbits and guinea pigs that I dutifully cared for in their hutches in the garden. I was always anxious to make sure they were locked up safe and protected from the neighborhood foxes who were permanently on the look out for an easy dinner.
I’m sure that Mum loved explaining to the (smaller) kids next door why one of our rabbits decided that, while out in their run on the lawn and in full view of our neighbors, he and his companion guinea pig were now friends with benefits! Going by the squeaking Patch - the unfortunate guinea pig - was definitely not on the same page when it came to taking their relationship to the next level.
Over the years my parents garden became a graveyard to the various pets that came and went. Each lovingly laid to rest in the vegetable patch. I dread to think what the new owners thought when they dug up that area of the garden. They must have found skeletons galore.
But every one of those creatures was a surrogate for the pet I really wanted. I yearned to have a dog. But Dad wasn’t having any of that. He’d grown up with a sassy little Scottie (Scottish Terrier) called Jock - and had the scars on his hand to prove it when he’d to break up a fight with a much larger dog. He knew that we couldn’t give a dog the best life - too many holidays abroad and too little time to give it the daily care it needed.
He must have been sick to death of my pleading. I did my best to get Mum on my side, but even she wouldn’t be swayed about us having a dog. In the end I got second best - I still was ecstatic - as when I was around 15 (about 1982) Dad gave in and we were allowed to have a cat.
I still remember going with Mum to the rescue place to pick her out. A beautiful little tortoiseshell kitten.
An old faded picture of her and I - not long after she came to live with us. We called her Xania - pronounced Hania - after the town Chania in Crete where we’d been on holiday.
The first evening we had her Dad and I went out - I had an ice skating lesson in London. A story for another time. But we came home to find Mum lying on the kitchen floor, swearing her head off, because the little 8 week old bugger (Mums description, not mine of course!) had decided to wedge herself behind the dishwasher and refused to budge. It took hours to coax her out.
Could you find a cuter kitten? Credit for this one goes to a washing machine repair man, or maybe he was a telephone engineer from BT, I don’t remember exactly. He happened to come to the house a few days after she arrived. As a keen amateur photographer he couldn’t get back to his van fast enough to grab his camera and take some pictures of Xania. This one will always be treasured in my Memory Box.
She was cuddly as a kitten and would jump up to sleep on your lap in the evening. But as she grew older her desire for independence increased. She loved us in her own way, but was content to sit in ‘loaf’ position by the door to whatever room you were in. She wanted to know where you were, but didn’t need more.
Her nights were spent outside stalking the woods that led directly off Mum and Dads garden. She quickly became an accomplished hunter and loved nothing better than bringing home decapitated mice to leave on the mat outside the glass kitchen door. Needless to say Mum was the one with the rubber gloves to deal with those little offerings.
She loved Mum the best and she’d request breakfast by licking Mums bare heels as she stood making coffee in the kitchen. When we came home after being away on holiday she’d disappear to the top of the garden and sit for hours, with her back to us, sulking at our audacity that we’d gone away and left her!
Sadly Xania died unexpectedly when she was around 12 I think. By then I’d moved out and was living a 30 minute drive from their house. So when Mum and Dad were away a neighbour would look after her. But one day I got a worried call from that same neighbour - Xania had disappeared and hadn’t been seen for a couple of days. We went over and heartbreakingly found her dead, curled up on the Flymo (a type of lawnmower) in an out-building that she had access to use when she wished. I couldn’t see through my tears as we dug the grave to bury her in the veg. patch that evening.
It took me apart that she died alone. After all these years it still makes me cry as I write this. I stayed home from ‘work’, aka studying for my PhD, for two days. Luckily my supervisor was allergic to emotional women and didn’t care as long as he didn’t have to deal with my tears. I stayed in bed and literally cried me a river.
I missed having a pet so it didn’t take long before I wanted another animal around the house. We attempted to have a dog, but realized within a couple of weeks that our lives, and our little house, were not dog friendly so she went back to whence she came. More tears. But I wasn’t giving up. It was time to ‘sell’ having a cat to another man in my life.
And after a little while along came Mabel, otherwise know as Mabs.
It was 1999. I was coming to the end of my PhD. And I’d been married for approaching seven years. This time I had to convince my then husband instead of Dad that we needed a cat. It took time. He finally gave in. He wasn’t at all enthusiastic - I was definitely the driving force - which could have proved funny, if it hadn’t been annoying, considering his reaction once we had a cat.
We went off to visit a volunteer at Cats Protection (as rescue charity for those not in the UK, or not into cats!) - somewhere in Watford or the surrounding area I think.
I remember walking into the garden and there was this big structure built of wood and chicken wire. At a glance it looked much more like a bird aviary than a home for cats. But inside there were five or six felines looking for new homes. No kittens this time.
We were let into the ‘building’ and as I stood there this little black cat climbed up on to a shelf that ran around the structure at about waist height. She didn’t hesitate. She walked straight up to me and climbed into my waiting arms. Snuggled in. And I could almost here her say - “I love you, please take me home now.” How could I refuse?
So that little six month old cat became our Mabel. Not a run of the mill name for a cat I know. Why Mabel? Because at the time I adored an American TV show called ‘Mad About You’ starring Paul Reiser and Helen Hunt. Mabel was their (new) baby of the human variety. My Mabel was my fur baby.
Mabel came to live with us on Sunday 10th January 1999. I’m not good with dates as you may have gathered, but that one is stuck in my mind. As I sat on the floor playing with our new housemate Mum called, to say that Granny G had died. I’d already been looking forward to introducing Gran to Mabel - she loved animals as much, if not more than, me.
It was also just over a week before my PhD viva, the final oral exam, before you are bestowed with the title ‘Doctor’ and start to confuse the general population with the fact that you can use the title ‘Doctor’ but you’re not of the medical variety and no, you can’t take a look at the strange spot on their butt.
This is the only picture that I have left of Mabs. The quality isn’t great as it’s a picture taken on my phone of the original, not so good, photograph. Here she’s sitting outside our home office, as I revised for said viva, patiently waiting for cuddles - she loved snuggling up on my chest and putting her head right under my chin.
As we’d find out, around anyone else but my husband and I, she was a nervous little soul. She hated any visitors to the house and as soon as the doorbell rang would rush to hide in the furthest corner under the guest bed, where nobody could reach her. There she’d stay for hours even after they’d left.
We didn’t have a cat flap in that house but after a few weeks we’d open the back door and offer her time outside in the garden. On every occasion we got a resounding “No thanks!” It took a good six months before she built up the courage to step out of that door. I’m sure that she was convinced that we’d let her out and then not let her back in again.
All that we knew of her early life was that she’d been born into a chaotic house with too many dogs, too many cats, and too many kids. She certainly carried the mental scars to prove it.
And it also resulted in her having a very confused identity. In her head she had no idea whether she was a human or a dog. A cat didn’t even come into the picture! Take her to the cattery for a stay while we went away and she’d spin around in my hands and grab my chest with her claws (I still have the scars to prove it) - “Don’t leave me with those creatures” she seemed to implore.
She played fetch like a dog. Her favorite game. Though we made a fatal mistake by buying her little plastic ‘cat’ balls with a bell inside. Why were we so stupid?! She’d hide them around the house so that she could retrieve them at a time of her choosing. Usually around 4am! You’d hear her come tinkling up the stairs, then plop onto our bed. Then she’d carefully drop the ball on you to get more tinkles as it rolled off. As far as she was concerned it was time to play.
I started working from home in 2002 which was bliss for her as it meant that I was at home all day, unless I was travelling to see a customer. It would get to about 5pm and she’d decide I’d done enough for the day. She’d saunter across my desk, park her bum in the middle of my keyboard, and sit - staring into my face - challenging me to try and type anything more!
She wasn’t a hunter like Xania and preferred to sleep at night in a nice comfy bed - preferably ours. Which as far as she was concerned was actually hers and she was kind enough to let us share it. She generally slept in the middle - my husband and I clutching the edges either side - while she stretched out luxuriously (and horizontally) across the bed. Is it any wonder that we ended up divorced?!
I adored Mabs - way, way, way past the point of reason. She was my fur baby. My buddy and confidante. My one true love.
But…
Even when we got her I knew that my marriage wasn’t going to last. If I’m honest I’d say that we probably never should have gotten married in the first place. I loved the wedding bit, but was never 100% convinced about the marriage part and the fact that it meant spending the rest of my life with this guy.
I wanted to leave. But I just couldn’t quite find the courage to step over the line. And Mabs made it all so much harder. I’d fallen hook, line, and sinker in love with this little soul, who’d climbed into my arms that first day that we met. And the trouble was that my (then) husband had done the exact same thing.
I couldn’t leave her. And I knew that my husband, who I now wanted very much to be my ex-husband, would fight me for ‘custody’.
So I stayed for more years than I even want to think about. I stuck it out. Hoping he might have an affair and decide to leave so that I could have some (guilt) leverage to force him into letting me keep her. Dreaming of a life without him. Sad, right?
But in the end something had to give. Things started to fall apart. I changed job because of pressure from him as he hated me working late into the evenings and travelling to medical conferences on the weekends. Little did he know that I added an extra night, here and there, just to get away from him.
I hated the new job and after only two days called my boss to ask for my old job back - and yes, this was Synarc (again) for those who read my previous post. I wanted to be closer to the action, part of a team, and asked to move to an office, ideally the one in Copenhagen. They said yes, with no hesitation.
It broke my heart that I had to leave Mabel, but it was time, and I couldn’t take her to live in another country, in a small apartment, and deal with her care when I was travelling more frequently.
It was July 2003. Mabel was almost exactly 5 years old. And within just three weeks I was gone from her little life for good. It still makes my heart hurt to think about it.
She stayed with my ex, who I know took good care of her, and I only saw her once more a couple of years later. As you can guess she treated me with the disdain you’d expect for leaving her as abruptly as I did.
She would have turned 27 this month so she must be long gone by now, but I’ve never stopped thinking of her and I hope she lived a long and happy life.
Do I regret that I stayed in that marriage for years past its sell by date? Many people would expect that I would, especially after getting so sick at the end of 2022 and coming within a hairs breadth of dying. All those wasted years. But not in my book. I don’t regret a minute. I had precious time with Mabel even if not with that particular guy.
When it comes down to it I don’t regret any of the decisions that I’ve made in my life as each one has resulted in me being exactly where I am today. In Copenhagen. Looking out of my window at a beautiful blue sky and a gorgeous garden. Married to a man that I love to the moon and back and who I’m certainly not planning to leave. And with another furry friend that I adore.
I like my ‘here and now’ very much…
A little thank you to Francis F who inspired this post by writing about her own cat, aka ‘little fucker’, back in May and who encouraged me to put pen to paper, or perhaps I should say fingers on the keyboard, to share this story.
I can’t leave this post without sharing a picture of my current furry squeeze. I know, any excuse! If you haven’t heard about her before this is Evie, a Papillon/Chihuahua mix, though the Chihuahua bit seems to gone astray. She’s a dinky 4.8kg and turns 4 years old on 13th August 2026. I loved my cats, but Evie is something extra, extra, extra special.
Dear Evie… A Doggy Love Letter
I was that kid who harassed her parents for years about getting a dog. I loved all animals, but I knew a dog would be extra special. A companion. A playmate. A partner in crime. A comforting presence when times got tough. And of course, a best friend.
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In case you missed it, I published my book about my flesh-eating bacteria battle - Hold My Hand: A Journey Back to Life - for FREE here on Substack last year. If you’d like to read it then you can find every chapter by clicking HERE and you’ll go directly to the webpage dedicated to the book. Or you can just click on the link to the first chapter below.
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