He could use door handles and steal catnip from the kitchen cupboards. And, when I became very unwell, he would pace around me like a doctor on call
H
arvey came into our lives during a year of loss. It was 2004, and my grandmother had just died, quickly followed by our beloved cat Skeet (Manx English for “nosy”). With the family thrown into mourning, the house became eerily quiet and still, and my mother was grieving.
I was only 11, and did not know how to take care of her, but I did know that we needed the chaos and joy of a new cat. We found Harvey at the local cattery on the Isle of Man: he sat squeezed at the back of his pen, looking curiously at us with enormous, owl-like eyes. My mother smiled for the first time in months. We knew he was the cat for us.
Harvey settled in quickly and we adored him. He was loved because he was so human – he used door handles to let himself in, concocted schemes to steal catnip from the kitchen cupboard, and meowed in a broken “mah-ow” that sounded disquietingly similar to “hallo”. But mostly he was loved because he so obviously loved us back. When he found one of us upset, he would instinctively sit close and purr, his calm weight anchoring us to the world.
