My biggest mistake was failing to be born a cat. I possess all the relevant skills: eating, sleeping and being stroked. But since I failed to make the grade, I had to settle for being owned by one.

Initially two, thanks to the underhand tactics of the Cat Protection League. When they tell you they have a kitten singular, don't believe them. When you get there, a second one will have mysteriously appeared. You may consider yourself an intelligent person, wise to the ways of marketeers, but you will fall for the line "awww, just look at them playing together".

But although Dougal was quite fond of humans, he really prefers dogs. So when I got custody of the cats and my ex got custody of the dog, Dougal promptly went off to find a replacement dog a few houses away. They were rather taken aback when a strange cat appeared through their back door, rushed up to their startled dog and started rubbing noses with it, but quickly accepted him as part of the family and when I moved house, they officially adopted him.

I guess naming a cat Zebedee and bringing him up in a home with a dog was bound to create a certain amount of confusion, and Zebby did partly consider himself a dog. He came running when called, for example. But he was under no illusions whatsoever about the pecking order: he came when called on the strict understanding that there were strokes or food in it for him.

If he wanted to walk from A to B and the shortest route happened to be across your face, when you were all snuggled up in bed snoozing, he would naturally take the shortest route. And if the stroking ended before he was bored with it, you would find a paw tapping your nose in an 'Oy, you, we're not done yet' kind of way.

He died peacefully of old age at the age of 19.