I use a Facebook site that offers things free of charge in our local area. While it isn’t entirely perfect, it is a reasonable way to locate or rehome items, with a view to reducing waste. The admins do a great job of keeping it running as smoothly as possible and it is accordingly very popular. A local lady I know of was asking for various things associated with her cat having had kittens. We, or rather Martin, offered her a scratching toy that our cat had flatly refused to acknowledge. When she came to collect the item, I was at the gym. I was surprised on my return that Martin had enquired about the kittens and their availability. Until that point we’d never really discussed the option of more pets. And my feelings were consistent; we can’t afford any more pets, and Roxy, his mature cat, would hate it!

Somehow over the subsequent weeks, Martin had sold me the idea of getting a kitten. I’m a big softie, and as much of a sucker for an itty bitty stripy kitty as the next cat lover. He convinced me that Roxy would love the kitten and it would bring out her long buried maternal instincts. I figured Roxy is his cat and he knows her best. He also made me believe that financially things would be ok. In fact every doubt I brought up, he had an answer for. I wanted to believe him. I wanted that kitty.

Nothing prepared us for gorgeous Lucy. She was the most beautiful itty bitty stripy kitty. You could clearly see her Bengal markings within her tabby. But her Bengal genes were strong in her personality too. Exceptionally energetic, needing constant stimulation from waking to sleeping. Craving our attention endlessly. In an attempt to meet her needs we went back and got her sister, Misty, an adorable tortoiseshell. They were lovely. I would sit on the sofa sometimes with two cute kitties snuggled against me and they would melt my heart. But somewhere, deep inside, I was aware that I was holding back. I didn’t believe we’d be able to keep them, and I was, as much as I could in the face of cuteness overload, guarding my heart.

Martin on the other hand was already completely and utterly in love with them. I had, from the outset said I was unable to look after pets, and that they would be his responsibility, and they were his girls. He was smitten. I actually believed for a time that he loved them more than me. For me, the cracks were already appearing. Despite Martin’s best efforts, the flat smelled like one huge litter tray. I was getting stressed that my furniture and curtains were just huge vertical scramble nets. My new carpets one big scratching post. Maybe I was naive, but when I’ve owned kittens previously they were never quite so, well, feral. The wildcat genes from their Bengal grandmother were strong in these two. Attempts at discipline, buying more different and challenging toys all seemed futile.

Then there were the vet appointments. Firstly their jabs they’d had previously were not compatible with the ones our vet used. Ok, we can work with that. We enquired about getting financial help with spaying them when the time came. Of all the animal charities, we struggled to find one that covered our home town. Suddenly more and more bills are piling up. They were getting through more kitten food and cat litter than I could shake a stick at. I was beginning to panic about the long term financial implications of owning them.

While all this was developing, firstly, Universal Credit put our monthly payment on hold. Suddenly we potentially had no money and no date given for that to be resolved. Secondly at this time, Martin’s doctor decided to change his antidepressant, so he was on a weaning-off dose and not doing well. And I started on HRT, which seemed like a good idea at the time in light of my menopause symptoms. Unfortunately within a few days I was unable to stop crying, was severely depressed and struggling to keep myself safe. By day six my doctor had advised me to stop it again, and over another week on I’m starting to feel less horrendous. I have to say, I was scared. Martin also was scared. He’s never seen me so acutely ill.

And my best friend says to me, “I don’t think you should be keeping your kittens.”

I knew she was right. They need people who have the energy to devote to them. Somewhere with a safe outdoor space. And the resources to give them everything they need and deserve. But my heart was broken and how the heck do I broach the subject with Martin?

To say our marriage survived by a thread, I don’t think is exaggerating. Unfortunately both our ‘his and hers’ depressive moods were at their worst. Both of us spoke harshly to the other. It was ugly. Blood, snot and tears. I wasn’t at all sure if we’d make it.

Amongst the chaos we took Roxy Cat to the vet for her annual jabs. To our total dismay the vet discovered a small lump in her mammary tissue. The recommended surgery and treatment will be the best part of £1000. She also had some bloods taken which show an anomaly in her kidney function. We were both floored. Although she’s Martin’s cat, she and I have a special bond and the news hit us hard.

Roxy had been unhappy since the day the kittens arrived. She would mostly stay out of their way, even if that meant being out in her catio in the cold and the wet. That seemed no way for our much loved, older, potentially poorly, girl to be spending her days.

And our other consideration was Roger. Our motorhome. Since getting him earlier in the year we have loved being able to plan impromptu trips away. That would be impossible with the kitties, who needed so much attention and were still feeding three times a day. Originally, when planning to get one kitten we had thought we could harness train her and take her with us. But not two. It would never work. Rogering, as we like to call it, has become our escape, our sanity. It’s a travesty to just leave him in storage, unused.

The ever wise best friend assumed responsibility for the rehoming of the kitties. We sobbed and wailed as we collected up their so many possessions. I nearly lost the plot when we handed them to the foster carers because we hadn’t located Lucy’s favourite mousey toy. It was so hard. As much as I’d tried not to get attached my heart was breaking.

We want them to have a great life. Together. No way should our beautiful girls be apart. With people devoted to them. Room to explore. Outdoor space with trees to climb. Regrettably they weren’t right for us and we weren’t right for them. They weren’t right for Roxy. Now we can devote our love and energies to her again.

My other concern has been the lady we got the kittens from. I was worried she would be upset when she discovered we gave them up to a rescue charity and would have thought we should have returned them to her. Truth is she was no better equipped to care for them than we were. In fact less so. And we were concerned that she would use them, Lucy in particular, for breeding. It has been one of the hardest decisions I’ve made. I’ve always been judgmental of people who take on pets then give them up. But I guess you never appreciate the issues until you’re actually in that situation. Despite us both struggling with more acute mental health issues currently, I still believe we did the right thing. For the kittens, for Roxy, for us. Just excuse if we start crying again.