I don’t think I’ve ever come across a cat quite as grumpy as Lulu. She arrived with one of her female offspring, Tosca, as one of a ‘bonded pair’ from the local rescue centre. A tuxedo cat, beautifully marked, we hoped they’d be good company for one another. But, as soon as they both stopped hiding beneath the sofa and realised just how cushy a home they’d landed down in, Lulu decided that it was time her kid got a place of her own, much to poor Tosca’s bemusement.

It’s a sad fact that rescue centres struggle to rehome black or black-and-white cats. Nothing to do with superstition these days, and more to do with the fact they don’t photograph as well as their more colourful brethren for social media purposes.

Lulu was the only cat I’ve ever encountered who was capable of tutting at you when you did something she didn’t like. A huff of annoyance was generally followed by an outward flounce and the slam of the cat flap. She would return some time later, broadcasting at the top of her voice, having cut a swathe through the local wildlife, with her prize clamped between her jaws.

Catch (outdoors) and Release (indoors) was one of her favourite games, although she would have told you she was merely trying to teach us how to hunt. I became quite adept at cornering small furry things and carrying them to safety at the bottom of the garden. (Only one of them ever bit me while I was attempting rescue.)

Lulu loved to supervise. Nothing could be done without her inspection and approval, from the construction of a log store, to checks under the bonnet of the car. Going to the bathroom unaccompanied was out of the question. She would bellow outside the door until she gained entry, at which point she would either jump up on the sink so she could admire herself in the mirror, or hop into the bath for a wash. And if it was winter, she would squeeze herself onto the radiator, paws folded, and cook gently for most of the day.

She especially liked to keep an eye on me while I was writing. Or rather, while I was attempting to write. Sometimes she seemed to go out of her way to get in the way. If I was on the sofa, her favourite trick was to sneakily dangle a paw onto the trackpad of my laptop and make the cursor jump about the screen while I was trying to work.

At my desk, I tried to woo her with a blanket on a corner next to the monitor. She much preferred to drape herself over my arm, then sulk when I had the temerity to type when she was trying to get herself comfy. And I swear that cats can read via some kind of osmosis or braille through their backsides. If I left a notebook or piece of paper unattended for five minutes, she would sit on it.

Most of the time, she had that ‘butter wouldn’t melt’ look about her, but don’t let that fool you. More often than not, she reminded me of Kathy Bates in Misery, hefting a sledgehammer and saying, “You should be writing now… No. Really.”

We lost Lulu in early September 2021. She may have been a grump and—when it came to mice, rats and rabbits—quite frankly a serial killer. She may have growled at me whenever I clipped her front claws, and hissed at her daughter, but she would also stand up on her back legs and very gently grip your finger in her paws when you offered her a cat treat, and come galloping in from the garden when you whistled. She was my companion and my comfort, my muse and my friend.

I miss her.

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Zoë Sharp spent most of her formative years living aboard a catamaran on the northwest coast of England. She opted out of mainstream education at the age of twelve, and wrote her first novel at fifteen. She began her long-running series featuring no-nonsense ex-Special Forces trainee turned bodyguard heroine, Charlie Fox, after receiving death-threats in the course of her work as a photojournalist. Her work has been nominated for numerous awards, been used in a Danish school text book, inspired an original song and music video, and been optioned for TV and film. When not working on her novels or short stories, Zoë can be found improvising weapons out of everyday objects, renovating houses, or international pet-sitting. Her latest book is the first in a new series, THE LAST TIME SHE DIED, out October 20 2021 from Bookouture.