Soulmates are often found in unexpected places. Mine was under a bed in Andalusia. His cowering silhouette framed two huge eyes. He was thin and trembling and silent. She’d told me his story in the truck, as we rattled over dried-up river beds, along winding roads towards blue-grey mountains capped with cloud. Sold when he was very young, then returned amid a catalogue of complaints about his back legs, his hips, his alignment. No good for breeding. No good for selling. A factory reject. A waste product. No wonder he was terrified of humans.

For two days he remained in hiding, frozen with fear. Too scared even to eat. I moved slowly and murmured soft mantras: good boy; beautiful boy; you’re safe now. At last, midnight crunching nudged me awake. I smiled into the darkness. 

My mantras grew into rambling monologues. Detailed accounts of my daily duties and tales of the other rescued residents beyond the bedroom door. In full flow, I almost missed his small interjection. From the shadows of the tented bedspread came a questioning yowl, raw with the pain and confusion of his short life. A shy face appeared. Bright eyed, tall eared, with the exotic markings of his African serval ancestors. I held my breath, turned statue-still as he stretched out an elegant neck and sniffed my foot.

Day by day he introduced himself. Let me stroke his sleek back and gazelle-like legs. His creamy-coloured chin and striped monkey tail. Finally he stretched out, a full metre long, presenting his soft leopard-spotted belly. His sad yowl turned into a vast repertoire of chirping trills and singsong chatter. I told him I’d read that his breed could hold a conversation for up to 30 minutes. We discussed the article at length. 

He spent his days recovering long-lost toys from under the wardrobe. Learning how to open cupboards and drawers. Watching me in the shower and on the toilet with eyes wide and head tilted. Each night he would curl up on the pillow, lay one golden paw on my arm then purr like a Harley Davidson til morning.

Feline friendships followed: with his silvery sister Imani, discarded by the same breeder for being ‘ugly’; Kiki the big black Maine Coon; Robert the one-eyed ginger moggy. Group activities of stealing socks and hiding the soap were added to his itinerary. Beyond the walls, the wilderness called to him. There were trees to climb, thickets to explore, open spaces to sprint through in a blur of frenetic freedom. At nightfall he would collapse onto the bed and recount his adventures as I stroked his sleepy head. 

That morning he went out early, sniffing the cool air, serenaded by birdsong. I watched from the window as he disappeared into the tall bamboo on the riverbank. When he returned I would be gone. The bed stripped. The wardrobe empty. He’ll be ok, I whispered. As for myself, I wasn’t so sure.