Floof burst into my life on a gloomy autumn night in 2015. I was new to London, walking home from my bar job in the teeming rain, when a pair of green eyes on a porch roof stopped me in my tracks. Closer inspection revealed a small fluffy cat – black as the night, totally drenched and yelling right at me. I helped her down, and in response she shadowed me for 25 minutes down the busy main road, screeching outside my front door with a determination that woke my flatmate. We let her in – “just for tonight”. But as she bedded down on my pillow, I knew she had no plans to leave.
It shouldn’t have worked. I was 23, broke and in no position to become the sole custodian of an alarmingly personable animal – plus, my flatmate already had a cat. We searched for her owner for a week, imaginatively naming her Floof in the interim, but were secretly glad when nobody responded to our posters. Through some unspoken feline treaty, the flat was split in two: my flatmate’s cat, Chairman, took the front half, and Floof got the back. (plus the garden, despite being there all of a week).
Our bond was instant – as if we filled a hole in each other’s hearts. I was in a dark place back then, but Floof gave me a reason to live. The routine provided purpose, but it was her personality that filled my life with new colour. She was small but mighty: mischievous, charismatic and always happy as long as she was with me, grooming my face or resting her paws on my chin. She made me feel worth knowing, worth loving. We did everything together, coexisting with a pure and unguarded tenderness that she seemed to know I desperately needed.
She was incredibly sociable and loved when people came over, especially plumbers or boiler technicians, believing all visitors were there to see her. I have fond memories of her sprawled in the middle of the living room at parties, stealing hearts and Rizla packets alike. Her love for other animals, however, was not so vast: she barely tolerated Chairman and once launched an impressive attack on a fox at least twice her size. She wore that torn ear like a badge of honour.
I often travelled with her, and she would happily sit purring on the table in the train, accepting pats and offers of milk from charmed staff. Her time on the streets had left her with some respiratory issues, so she sneezed a lot – always with wonderfully comedic timing, covering our flat in snot. When my partner, Michele, came along, Floof won his heart, too. He would carry her around our flat on his shoulder – something only he was allowed to do.
We were inseparable for eight years, but last summer, Floof developed kidney failure and died in my arms at home. Losing her still hurts, but her love gave me the strength to survive it. Even now it gives me the strength to survive anything. That’s her gift to me, and I’ll treasure it – and her precious, cheeky, strong-willed memory – for the rest of my life.
