I've always thought that you can't actually 'own' a cat as many people believe but they 'exist' with you, as part of the family, and that means that you can't really choose them like some inanimate object – as they may not even like you!

No, the best pets actually choose you and the first cat that entered my life did exactly that, until such time that it decided to move on.

I was just a kid, say 4 or 5 years old, and living on the 2nd floor of a 5 storey block of flats in Walthamstow, East London.

There was a big, chunky black and white cat that lived with a couple up on the 4th floor – and his name was Whisky.

It was quite common in those days to leave the front door open, perhaps on a hot day, as it was perfectly safe. The only person who would normally walk in was perhaps a neighbour after a "cup of milk – forgot to buy some" usually with a "coooeee Hilda, can I come in?" and she would come in anyway.

However, we often had another little visitor, Whisky, the 4th floor cat. (Disgracefully, I can't remember the name of the couple who owned Whisky, I was very young at the time, but we shall call them The Smiths).

Whisky would wander in, stroll into our living room and nestle by the fire, whether it was on or not, and occasionally my Mum would put a saucer of milk down in the kitchen (probably not a good idea as you will see) and about 7pm every evening she'd be pushed out and told to go home!

However, Whisky decided that there was a good scam to be had here.

One evening at about 6pm there was a knock on the front door. My Mum opened the door and there was no-one there, except Whisky saw the opportunity and dashed in for her, now regular, milk and fire episode and at about 7 or 8 o clock (notice it's creeping later) she was pushed out again.

Spookily, this invisible guest began to visit us every evening and oddly Whisky was always there to catch the opportunity.

I'm sure you're ahead of me, but the mystery all came clear one evening as my Dad arrived home from work at about 6pm and as he approached the 2nd floor landing there, leaning bolt upright against our front door, standing on his back legs, lifting the door knocker up and down – was Whisky!

And he'd obviously been doing this for some time, but it does show the extent of a cat's intelligence to firstly have the ability to knock a door-knocker – but also to even understand that the consequences of completing these little trick results in someone opening the door. Brilliant!

So this extraordinary ceremony continued, almost always at the same time of 6pm ish (at all times of the year – how did he do that?) and the door would open, he'd amble in straight into the kitchen for his saucer of milk, then into the living room to lay full length in front of the fire.

Then, at about 9pm, one of us (usually me) would pick him up and carry him up to his real home on the 4th floor, knock on the Smith's door and in he'd go for the night – and this went on for a number of years.

One day, the Smiths called on us.

They had been offered a new bungalow in another part of town and unfortunately one of the provisos was 'no animals allowed!' and as Whisky had spent half his life being pampered on the 2nd floor, could we keep him?

Naturally, we would – and I was delighted.

It did mean that we'd have to start buying real cat food, but it also meant that I wouldn't have to go traipsing out in the cold every night to take him home. So in he moved permanently and he seemed oblivious to the change in circumstances although every night at 9ish he'd open one suspicious eye for a few minutes, just to make sure! And so he stayed, as part of the family.

Then, a few years later, something terrible happened.

We had a phone call from the Smiths and it seemed that that had moved to another, larger house, with a garden and…could they have Whisky back?

My goodness, I was devastated.

The fateful day arrived, Whisky was fast asleep on an armchair and in walked the Smiths to collect him – and we just couldn't believe what happened next.

Whisky, who had lived with us partly for 8 years and wholly for another 10 years and had just been fed a special treat of roast chicken – opened his eyes, raised his head, jumped off the chair, wandered over to the Smiths, mewed lovingly as he was picked and simply went.

Not a goodbye, not a wave of a paw, not a thank you.

I was beside myself with grief (I did love him) and my Mum was equally beside herself…with affront! But there you go – that's cats!

A few years later we had a call from Mrs Smith and it seemed that our (their?) poor Whisky had gone. His sight and hearing was poor, his teeth had gone and he had to be put to sleep.

He was 27 years old!

It was many years later and Sue and I had just bought our house in Kenton, Middlesex, but we had a 3 month delay before we could move in. We are both cat-lovers, and thought it would complete out new home with the addition of a furry guest.

Sue spoke to a couple of friends of ours who had a couple of Siamese cats (mother and daughter) and apparently the youngest had somehow escaped from the confines of home and had an intimate affair with the next door moggie – and this illicit liaison had resulted in a batch of six kittens.

To be precise, they appeared to be 3 sets of twins.

There were 2 that were all grey (and very Siamese-like) 2 that all white with black bits and two that were all black with white bits. Most odd.

So, with the intention of possibly choosing one, we turned up one evening for dinner and to play with the kittens and as we sat around the living room watching it soon became obvious that fate rather than choice would endure.

One tiny kitten, a grey one, had clambered up the side of a chair and nestled himself permanently into Sue's lap, and had no intention of playing nor of moving.

A second kitten, a black with white bits one, had set about demolishing my shoe laces and, having succeeded, then also clambered up my leg and into my lap.

So that was it – 2 cats had chosen their new homes and we had little say in the matter except that we still were a couple of months away from moving into our new home so our chums agreed to keep them until then.

And the day after we moved in, the 2 kittens arrived to investigate their new home and discover their new names – Spooky (he was the grey one which belonged to Sue) and Gladys (she was the black with white bits one which ate my laces) and they became far more a part our lives than we could ever imagine.

They lived together, played together, fought battles together, captured birds and mice together (although I usually managed to save the poor things) slept together (normally on our bed, or even in it!) and they were inseparable.

Spooky was the boy, a little bigger than Gladys but certainly stronger and spent most evenings on Sue's lap.

As he got older, sadly he developed a tumour and as with all pets you eventually have to make that traumatic decision about the quality of life and that time had now come.

We made that dreaded appointment with our Vet, who had known and nursed the pair of them since they were kittens, for the next day and I immediately felt sad, guilty, and confused (had we made the right decision?).

It was almost helpful that we were at a party that evening which we hoped would take our minds of the next morning but it didn't and we left early to spend the last night with Spooky and a very disturbed Gladys (trust me, they know!).

The morning came and we prepared the cat basket and I carried him up the garden to give him a last look at his lifelong home, slowly followed by Gladys who appeared to fully understand what was happening.

The time came and we drove him to the Vet, and the next 30 minutes were the most distressing of my life – so much so that I think that those upsetting thoughts and emotions are too personal to explain here.

Spooky was 17 years old.

When we returned home we had a double sadness to handle as not only had we just lost an old, dear friend, but we now had to deal with his confused sister whose loss, I feel, was even greater than ours.

It was truly heart-breaking to watch her searching the house and garden for her brother, staring sadly up into garden and crying so loudly calling for him. Her Siamese cry, already very loud, had appeared to double in decibels, almost into the sound of an old air-raid siren.

After a few months she settled down but became even more inseparable from me and followed me everywhere and, as soon as I down she'd leap up and settle not on my lap but usually on my chest or neck. I would wake in the night to discover that she had sneaked into bed, under the duvet and was laying full length between the two of us.

Whenever I arrived home and she was nestled on Sue's lap, as soon as I walked in she'd jump down, follow me around, wait for me to sit down, climb up my trouser leg (her jumping wasn't that good as she got older) clamber up my chest, give me a good welcome home lick all over my face (not always pleasant!) and curl up on my neck.

Whenever we were away for more than a couple of days we'd take her to the same cattery that she, and Spooky, had visited 2 or 3 times a years since they were kittens and as time went by the owner became increasingly worried about Gladys's age and condition – nervous that she'd die whilst we were away.

It's strange that as she got older I never seemed to notice her aging at the time and it's only when I look at old photographs that I then understand the cattery's concern.

Then one morning the inevitable happened.

I first noticed that something was wrong because when I awoke she wasn't on the bed, neither stretched out beneath the duvet nor laying on my chest biting my nose as was her usually morning greeting.

I walked downstairs to find her lying on the settee, very still and with slightly frightened eyes. Something was obviously very wrong. Throughout the day she hardly moved and, importantly, didn't eat or drink and she stayed still on the settee most of the day.

Unbeknown to us she had suffered a stroke.

The following day we took her to the Vet, the same Vet that had looked after them both for all those years and the Vet where we'd said goodbye to Spooky and it became clear that another dreadful day had arrived – except for me this was twice as bad as Gladys had become part of my life.

For the next couple of days we tried in vain to feed her by hand using a small syringe but it soon became obvious that she wasn't going to respond and one thing I do know about all animals is that when they stop eating and drinking, usually, their time is up.

She spent her last 48 hours in the lavatory as it was there that she generally drank her water (odd, I know) and all her life she could be often found crouching precariously in the toilet bowl, furry bum up in the air, as she drank the freshly filled water.

We took her back to the Vet for another check-up truly knowing the worst and the girl (who incidentally was younger than Gladys) was accompanied this time by her boss, the Vet who had known out cats for all those years.

He was there because he knew what was to come.

I prayed that he would say that we could try this or try that, but almost immediately he mentioned the terrible words "the quality of life" and Sue and I looked at each other and nodded a sad yes in agreement.

Again, the next 30 minutes were certainly the most distressing of my life, far more than when Spooky went and again so much so that it is too upsetting and too personal to explain here – except for one heart wrenching detail that I will never, ever forget.

As the Vet prepared by shaving her paw, I crouched down on front of her to hold her steady and she stared at me, constantly, almost in gratitude, totally at ease.

But my cowardice emotions simply couldn't take it so I stood up and walked around the side of her to hold her from behind – and she did the worst thing that she could possibly of done.

As the Vet slowly injected her, rather than cry, she craned her head calmly to her left, and upwards and calmly gave me a beautiful stare, uttered a quite goodbye mew, slowly returned her head to the front and fell asleep. She'd gone. The rest, as I say, is too personal and distressing to even write about here.

Gladys was 22 years old.

About a year before we lost Gladys, a small stray tabby cat had moved into the garage of our next-door neighbours. Unfortunately, the cat wasn't allowed into their home so she would often wander into ours being a cat-loving house (yes, they do know!).

But as Gladys was 'getting on' and it had been her home and castle for over 20 years, we didn't consider it fair to allow a stranger into the camp unless Gladys approved, so to speak.

The cat, which the young girl next door had nick-named Tom Tiddler was eventfully an acceptable visitor, into the kitchen area only, to have the odd bowl of food or milk as long as they were distinctly different bowls and laid down well away from Gladys's food tray.

Gladys was becoming far more tolerant as an old girl but the kitchen was the absolute limits and if young Tom dared put one paw over the demarcation line she'd hiss and spit at him until he ran off. This normally meant Gladys spending the next 20 or 30 minutes struggling to regain her breath, followed by a long lie down.

However, the day Gladys went (the worst day of my life) it seemed that Tom Tiddler must have known as that evening she wandered from the kitchen straight into the living room without any concern. She seriously seemed to know that there was now a vacancy and eventually, on one cold snowy weekend, she moved in permanently.

This brought instant mixed emotions as on the one hand we didn't want her to move in immediately, out of respect for Gladys (if that sounds stupid, then you're not a cat-lover!) yet on the other hand her presence did ease the sadness with the old 'instant replacement' thing.

So he stayed, and as expected, became yet another part of the family.

We were, of course, a little concerned about the little girl next door but we explained to her that it's far better for the cat to live comfortably in a house than in a cold garage and she could pop in any time to see her.

At some point, we thought it wise to give Tom Tiddler a visit to our Vet for a good check- up and the usual de-fleaing and de-worming and we had an amusing surprise.

Young Tom wasn't a Tom at all. In fact he wasn't young either. He was a she, and at least 3 years old, so for the benefit of the Vet's records I renamed her on the spot as Tomasina although from that day on she was simply Puss!

As with Gladys (but never as much so) Puss and I soon became inseparable although this did take a few months because her previous existence was very much in the wild and she didn't take too kindly, initially, to being touched.

She's inherited the territorial instinct syndrome which meant that if she'd decided that a certain patch of carpet under a coffee table by a radiator was a great place to sleep, then that area was hers and woe betide anyone who tried to enter!

This meant that (and it happened to me many times) if I stretched an arm down beside the armchair to give her a friendly stroke; I would set off an explosion of feline screams, vicious hissing and physical assault with her teeth and needle-like claws and I'd retrieve my blood smattered hand rather quickly.

There's gratitude!

But I suppose it's quite natural as she was a real wild animal when she first arrived and she soon began to relax, settle in and become part of the family.

And, like Gladys before her, she soon became closely attached to me, often literally, and whenever I entered the room she would climb her way up my clothes (much to Sue's horror) using her claws like grappling irons and clamber her way up to my face.

She also had a very strange habit of staring at me for a few minutes, quite intensely, with her face inches from mine, then suddenly biting me hard on the chin, normally drawing more blood. Being friendly apparently.

However, she was never a well cat and we'd always thought that she was the feline runt of the litter as she was quite thin and was often, for no apparent reason, sick!

A trip to the Vet soon showed that she had a thyroid problem that would require constant attention and perhaps, eventually, an operation that may be to dangerous to undertake and could be fatal.

She also had very poor teeth which again could be treated surgically (to have a couple removed) but again the operation could be too dangerous as she wasn't the strongest of cats as was a lot older than we thought. So she was prescribed 2 tablets a day (of something) for the rest of her life and these lasted about 2 months – and she had to go back to the Vet each time for a check-up.

If OK, she'd get another 2 months supply, if not, we were into the "quality of life" conversation again. But on she went, battling away and seemingly healthy although always thinnish, eating and drinking well (but still the occasional vomiting) and still running around happily and still biting my chin.

Then her day came.

I found her perched on the back of the settee, very quiet. Somehow you know instantly that an animal is not right and I knew for certain that her time had come as she completely stopped eating and drinking.

We took her immediately to the Vet who basically told us the news that we expected to hear but then gave us a tiny glimmer of hope in suggesting that it could be a simple bug of some kind and she may recover by the morning – but we all knew better.

Over the next 3 days she remained unchanged but oddly not in any pain or stress although she lost perhaps a third of her bodyweight and we knew that a call to the Vet was inevitable – and I decided to make that fateful call the next day.

The afternoon before the intended call, as so often happens when death is near, she did something very odd but totally explainable.

Although extremely weak and very thin, she suddenly staggered down from her comfortable 'bed' that we'd made for her (on a real bed upstairs so that I could keep a constant eye on her) and slowly, somehow, made her way downstairs and through the living room to the back door. She wanted to go outside – into the garden.

I opened the door for her and she slowly ventured up the garden path, very weak and struggling to stay upright in the mild wind and as I walked protectively beside her it dawned on me what she was doing.

When an animal is close to death, it's very common for them to attempt to return to their birthplace or a place of memorable comfort as did Gladys with the toilet – and Puss was strolling back to her real home, wherever that was. Of course I couldn't let her go and I gently picked her up and took her back to her bed where she then seemed to relax and accept my intervention.

The next morning we made a difficult decision – and that was to leave her to pass away where she was – and not take to the Vet which had always been a terribly stressful visit for her, so she could go in peace, in comfort and in her own time as she wasn't suffering at all.

She went though the whole day quietly, occasionally even drinking a little water that we'd put beside her, and then throughout the night I must have looked in on her every hour and most of the time she was asleep.

The following day I again looked in to see her every 30 minutes and just before midday she seemed quiet and comfortable, and gave me a little smile (which cats do with their eyes).

Half an hour later she was gone. She was still curled up as she was 30 minutes earlier but her eyes were now lifeless – but she died peacefully, at home.

Puss was possibly 7 years old.

Sue and I decided that our cat days were over.

However much you love and enjoy them, they become so much part of your lives and when they go it can be mortifying as you lose a member of your family.

When you have cat they're always there, when you first wake, when you walk into the kitchen, when you walk in the garden, have dinner or sit with your feet up watching television – and when they're gone everything changes. So no more cats, we thought.

The same neighbours who live next door brought home a beautiful young all-black sanctuary cat about a year ago, called Inka, and again she's living in their garage, and she's slowly moved in, a sock at a time.

But that's another story still to unfold!

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From the 'never to be published' book, THE RAMBLINGS OF AN ORDINARY BLOKE