In July 2021, after a few beers on a summer evening, my flatmate, Lew, answered an internet ad. By 5pm the next day, we had a kitten. She was a swirl of tortie-and-white fluff, with a small pink snoot, and huge ears that made her look more bat than cat. We called her Mush, pronounced like “smush”. From the moment the result of our drunken decision arrived and hid behind the sofa in our south London flat, we were in love.

Like many first-time parents in their 20s, Lew and I were fussy and overprotective. Neither of us had ever been responsible for a living creature before. When I held her tiny body against my chest, I felt anxious. Any little thing sent us running to the vet. A crusty eye. A single flea. Was she too small? Was she eating enough? “She’s in perfect physical condition,” the vet assured us during one of her many checkups.

As a pandemic baby, Mush didn’t socialise much during her first year of life. She saw only me, Lew and my boyfriend, who was part of our bubble. This early lack of contact may explain why she is so suspicious of strangers. All guests must undergo an extended period of being stared at from a distance before she approaches to sniff their hands, or, if they are lucky, allows them to pet her.

After the initial screening, Mush’s personality appears. She is sweet and mild-mannered. She never hisses or scratches; she will sit beside you and purr for hours. She loves chicken yoghurt straight from the packet. Every morning, after eating it, she would sit on my chest and breathe the fumes in my face. To you, she might look like a bog standard moggy; to me, she is beautiful.

In March 2023, after three years together, I moved out of our flat and in with my boyfriend, which meant leaving Mush with Lew. A year later, my worst nightmare happened. Lew called to tell me that Mush was missing. I felt sick, but Lew remained calm and printed off some homemade “missing” signs. The next day, Mush showed up, chirrupping and pleased with herself. It turned out that she had spent the night in our next-door neighbours’ cellar. They had looked for her there after seeing one of Lew’s posters, to which he had added a sensible note asking people to check their gardens and sheds.

Mush is now five. She and Lew live more than an hour away from me, but I see her at weekends. When Lew travels for work or goes on holiday, I am his go-to cat sitter.

These days, I’m more like a fun aunt than a neurotic parent. I know what a real emergency looks like and I no longer rack up vet’s bills over crusty eyes. Mush has taught me that in life, I don’t need to fret over every detail – sometimes when you love someone, you have to let them wander. And keep the door to your cellar closed.