I have no idea how Dusty, our cat, sees the world.

She was re-homed three years ago, at the age of eight. Which is pretty old for a cat to be plucked from her favourite lap (my husband’s) and plonked down on a stranger’s knee.

We thought long and hard before giving her up for adoption. I have always had cats, since I was born.

My first one was a huge tabby called Judy. Then there was the inimitable Topsy. A fluffy black and white cat with more personality than most people I know. She was a mean hunter too, bringing home everything from a screaming weasel to a young seagull.

I got Ziggy when my first child was a toddler. He is now a dad of three, and has his own cat, the very grumpy Misty.

Ziggy died of old age when she was twenty-one. She just got scraggier and scraggier, like the very old lady she was.

When she stopped eating Ben and Jerry’s ice-cream (any flavour, she was not fussy, but it had to be Ben and Jerry’s), I knew she was nearing the end.

She died, curled up on the kitchen floor, in front of the fire. I think she was happy.

Then Dusty came into our lives. A smokey grey kitten, terrified of everything. Except my husband.

Dusty was Nigel’s cat. She tolerated me, but only when I was about to feed her. She loved Nigel. And he loved her.

So when our peripatetic lifestyle became too peripatetic for her, we took the difficult decision to find her a new home.

It took a few months. Most people want a lively, young kitten. Not a prissy, middle aged, slightly overweight cat. But three years ago she moved to Fife.

So today, I hope my cat sees the world from the comfort of a plump lap, purring while her ears are gently, very gently rubbed, before sliding off for yet another bowl of Hill’s Light cat food.