Happy birthday, Vega

Nine years ago today, my flatmate of the time and I went to the Wellington SPCA, in search of a feline companion for our shared living space. My flatmate said to me: "If it's a boy, we call it Oedipuss". I'm very, very glad that it turned out to be a girl.

We knew we wanted a black cat - and there was a choice of two. A hulking tom creature that sat on a high shelf and fixed us with a level gaze of contempt. And a fluffy little creature curled up in a corner, apparently trying to studiously ignore her surroundings.

We chose the latter. The SPCA lady, probably suspicious of young people, asked which of us was taking on responsibility for looking after this animal for the rest of its natural life. Without hesitation, I put my hand up.

They told us that she was approximately one year old. She had only been spayed a day or two before, and she had little cat breasts. To this day, I don't know whether this meant that she'd been pregnant, or had a litter. I occasionally see cats who look just like her roaming the town, or in some cases in kitten baskets at pet shops. She could well be a great-great-grandmother by now.

She didn't settle in easily at our flat. She was (and still is, for that matter) incredibly jumpy. She managed to run away once - thankfully she only ran away to across the road.

Since then, she has stuck with me through three flat shifts, two forced cohabitations with other cats, and more than a dozen uppity neighbour cats who offered her insult. I'm not sure whether it would be right to take her to Auckland with me - but if not, then certainly darthsappho will look after her admirably well.

She's not the friendliest or more level-tempered cat in the world. In fact, she's downright evil, but I love her dearly anyway. (This is Vega I'm talking about here, not darthsappho.) And today I celebrate her tenth birthday.