So I get home from work the other day and Napoleon’s nowhere to be seen. Unusual but no big deal; although the fact his food hasn’t been touched all day is a bit weird.

At 7pm there’s still no sign of The Schmoogle (as McBec calls him) and we start to get a bit worried. Napoleon has always popped in for a few cuddles and snacks by this time.

At 10pm Napoleon still isn’t home and our concern is heightened. We do a few laps of the area calling his name and nervously looking in gutters for flat fur. No joy.

At midnight there is what can only be described as full-blown panic. I grab a torch, wander the streets, and do a tour inside the abandoned factory across the road. I go home with a terrible feeling of loss in my stomach. The cat’s gone — either dead or lost.

We sleep with the front window open in case Napoleon arrives during the night and I wake at 3am to check his bed and other favourite sleeping spots. Nothing. I lay awake for the next four hours feeling immense sadness and a gap in my life, trying hard to rationalise the emotions I feel for a stupid animal.

At 7am I crawl out of bed and sit on the lounge staring at the scratching post I made for Napoleon. I wonder how long I should leave it in the loungeroom before moving it to the shed. I look at the bowl of food, untouched for 24 hours.

McBec comes back from her jog and finds Napoleon sitting casually on the front porch, like nothing has happened at all. He’s got about four layers of grease covering his fur, evidence of a night of adventure in the factory across the road. He has no idea about the pain he’s caused us because he’s a cat. In the space of a few seconds my black mood turns white. The grey and lifeless world turns beautiful. The gap left by my missing cat has been filled.

I grab Napoleon from McBec’s arms, hug him fiercely, and then consider kicking the little bastard across the room. Who’d own pets?