It had been over a year and we still hadn’t scattered Mr. Portobello’s ashes. After each working week, my partner Dave and I would discuss our plans surrounding Porty’s farewell.

“I’ve got a poem I want to read out!”

“Sure thing, but it has to be on a beautiful day!”

“Of course, and we should take a nice bottle of red to drink a toast him when it’s done!”

But by the end of each weekend, we’d find that we’d somehow forgotten to take his ashes, or the day hadn’t been beautiful enough, or we’d drunk the bottle of red the night before.

Sending Mr. Portobello off seemed to be a harder task than we’d thought.

We’d also discovered that a ragged little hole had been rent in our family fabric.
Without Porty, our homey little flat didn’t feel so welcoming. I missed stroking his loyal head in the evenings and I missed his grumpy old man face snuggled between us in the mornings.

I put it to Dave.

“It’s time we shared our life with others. Kiddies or Kitties?”

In a parallel life, Dave would be brokering relations in the Middle East. He put his head to one side and pretended to give it some thought.

“I think that looking after a kitty would help us to prepare for the kiddy.” Yeah, right. But what did it matter? Because what it DID mean was that we would be a kitty household again! Yay!

Not long after, I met a Phileas Fog kind of cat on my wanderings. He was handsome, friendly and apparently erudite on various subjects including mice, sunny afternoons and windowsills. After bidding farewell, I returned home to Google in his large blue eyes, sweet brown ears and white socks and found that I’d met a cat of the Birman persuasion.

Being rather taken, I sought out a Birman breeder in Bendigo. Jen happened to love all animals and had also given a home to a wiry cross terrier, a cockie and a motley crew of moggies in all shapes and sizes. After meeting our new, impossibly cute kitten, Jen suggested that our new little boy might like a pal. Had we considered bringing home a kitten from the RSPCA?

Could I face going there? Looking into all of those little, furry faces and only being able to bring one back home? And what would I do if I couldn’t resist? Dave admitted he had visions of me leading a throng of kittens, puppies and rabbits up the three flights of stairs to our home with a sheepish grin on my dial.

But it made sense. If we were to open up our house, it should be to someone who truly needed it. So I packed up a little bag of treats and rugs and tootled out along the flat, grey roads to the Burwood RSPCA Shelter, listening to 50’s rock’n’roll.

I parked my Honda out the front and was invited into the adoption shelters where about eight kittens were gamboling happily about and being cooed over by a colourful clutch of shiny, smiley people.

Not quite the Dickension picture I’d imagined.

I’d heard from sanctified cat lovers that a cat will pick you, so I stood well back and prepared myself for the torrent of cats that would very soon come hurtling my way, recognising instinctively my amazing animal husbandry skills.

A hissy, long haired Torty was the first to leave with a yellow haired girl in a red cardigan, followed by an effervescent ball of black and grey stripes, then a striking velvet princess with pale green eyes left under the arm of an elegantly attired lady sporting a silver bun.

But not once did I even get a tail flicked in my direction! It was strange. Here I’d come, concerned that I’d want to bring back a car-load of kitties, and I hadn’t gotten a whiff of interest. Not a sausage.

I stood there for over an hour, hands balled into the pockets of my jacket watching kittens wend their way through stockinged legs and being dandled fondly on goose-pimpled knees, before being popped into a cosy cat carrier and driven home to a warm house that smelt of freshly baked bread and scones. And, while this was REALLY WONDERFUL for the kitties, I personally was beginning to feel like a wallflower at a country dance. All arms and legs and crumpled socks.

Of course there was one tiny little black and white crumb of a kitten, nonchalantly asleep on top of a carpeted step. But no matter how desperate I was to be loved; I couldn’t stoop to disturbing a kitten in need of some shut-eye!

To appease my awkwardness, I struck up a conversation with a young girl who was being courted by two dashing kittens. She kindly supported my cat-less-ness with the time honoured motto: “What will be, will be” which is all well and good, I thought rather bitterly, when you’re being swarmed by adoring moggies.

It’s always when you’re about to give up isn’t it?

At that precise moment, I felt two little paws some to rest on my sneakers. And looking down, I saw the previously sleepy black and white kitten smiling up at me with friendly green eyes.

Had he mistaken me for someone else? The positive twitch of his white whiskers suggested not. And when I bent down to pick him up, he clambered up my coat sleeve, snuggled into the crook of my arm and fell asleep.

Wow.

“Oh, he’s adorable!” said the girl beside me, clasping her two new friends to her chest and grinning. “You’ve found a friend!” I tried very hard to look cool and casual about it, but to be honest I was as excited as a school girl who’d snatched a kiss off a rock star.

“I’ve found a friend for Louis!” I squealed over the phone.
“That’s great babe!!” said Dave. “But I thought you said you were just going there for a look.”
“Um… well I was,” I muttered, thinking guiltily back to my car packed with treats and rugs, “But he’s just wonderful!” I cried, hoping that my enthusiasm would spill into the phone lines and infect him. Apparently it did, by the end of the phone call Dave was sounding positively giggly with excitement.

Now it was my little kitten’s turn to get popped into a cat carrier and be driven to St Kilda. Together we tuned into Gold FM and he turned out to be a patient listener as I whistled both tunelessly and haplessly to Elton John and Billy Joel.

We called him Jacque, after Jacque Tati who’d directed our favourite film “Playtime”. Turned out that our “gentle” little black and white mog was quite a live wire in the comfort of his home.

At first we were worried about our baby Birman Louis and watched in horror as Jacque terrorized him about the house. But a quick call to Jen assured us that this would more than likely be a phase while they sorted out the pecking order. We just needed to make sure that Louis knew he could escape to a safe space when Jacque got too much, and received plenty of love and security.

She was so right.

The boys are now just over two years old and thick as thieves! What Jacque might have in strategy and energy, Louis more than makes up for in bulk. They spend time at least once a day grooming each other and, especially now it’s winter, curl up together to fall asleep .

We still haven’t scattered Porty’s ashes and I’m glad in a way. We’ve moved from St Kilda to North Fitzroy and Porty’s migrated with us. We’ll buy a rose I think; a big fragrant white one and pot it up with Porty’s ashes at its base. Then he can travel with us. Now I just have to wait for the right rose to come to me!

The RSPCA is calling for stories!

Has adopting a pet from the RSPCA changed your or someone else’s life? Wanna share the love by sharing your story?

The RSPCA would love to hear it! You don’t need to be a writer or author – just tell your story in your own words. And send photos too!

Every year in Australia, the RSPCA accepts around 135,000 animals from the community and investigates over 46,000 complaints of animal cruelty and neglect.

It’s important that everyone love, respect and protect their pets. By telling your personal story and getting it out to the broader community, you’re helping spread the good word.

For more information or to tell us your story, phone Jane on 02 6282 8300 or e-mail news@rspca.org.au

And if you’d like to learn more about an exciting new event called Happy Tails Day, send us a message at HappyTailsDay@rspca.org.au