Ableism is defined in the dictionary as “discrimination in favour of able bodied people”. Funnily enough, for a long time even in my position with a disability, this kind of discrimination wasn’t something I’d experienced so directly and in a way that frustrated and upset me more than when I began my quest to become a pet owner.

My family have always been dog people more so than cats. When I was growing up, we had a Westie named Angus and though I loved him dearly, I always felt for some reason that he and I didn’t share a massively strong bond compared to the rest of my family, who could look after and interact with him much more easily than I was able to. Lots of my friends had cats, and I insisted throughout my teenage years and into early adulthood that when the time was right, I’d have a cat to call my own.

In July of 2017, I moved into my own flat. It was a few months in that I seriously started to entertain the idea, but it would take many more months and a few personal changes before anything came to fruition- I’d make endless lists of all the things I’d need, be consistently double checking that I could commit financially, and more often than not letting my own insecurities about whether I could manage nearly get the best of me. Friends who knew how passionate I was about the whole thing would sit for hours over numerous cups of tea with me being so supportive and encouraging and it must have drove them crazy (they know who they are, and I’ll be forever grateful.)

A vast majority of my local rescues would out and out not rehome to me due to where I live – my flat is on the ground floor fairly near a main road. Now, I understand the reasoning for this as it’s wholly to do with the cat’s safety, and it is with that logic that I always wanted to rehome an indoor cat to begin with, that and the fact I only have provision for care from and until certain times of day, so if one went walkabout and needed to be coaxed back in for whatever reason, we’d be stuck. So, before you even get to meet and see how you gel with any potential companion it feels like a write off because of something you can’t change – my home is now specially adapted for my needs and we’d fought too long and too hard to get me here in the first place.

I’d like to mention Bristol and Wales Cat Rescue here – they were particularly open minded and supportive, wanting to find me a suitable indoor only kitty. Unfortunately, any indoor cats I’d heard about via their social media were snapped up already after I’d enquire about them: lovely for the cats and testament to the amazing work of the team, but no less frustrating when it happens repeatedly.

If by chance you do get beyond talk of your living arrangements, you’re constantly up against other people’s perceptions of you and how they think your disability impacts you. In January of this year, I met a gorgeous long haired black cat called Steve at Bristol A.R.C. He was unfortunately in one of the pens outside (with no step free access, of course) and his usual handler wasn’t in on this particular day, so after a nonetheless very encouraging discussion where I was invited back to meet Steve properly one day with a view to adopting him and after placing a temporary reserve on him, I went home once more back at square one. It was in the ensuing days that this fell through – after calling the rescue and trying to arrange a time to meet the handler, the receptionist informed me that the lady in question had been told of my visit and about my disability… but unfortunately Steve didn’t like being picked up and handled, so he wasn’t the best fit for me. The fact this was decided without her even speaking to me directly made me upset and angry for a while, but things got better…. before we get there though, I want to talk about another experience that has left a bitter taste in my mouth.

Before Steve, among the few cats I’d been able to meet was a tabby boy named Chester, based at a rescue called Little Paws. There were numerous phone exchanges between the owner and myself, wherein during one I had said to the effect of: I don’t have anything ready in the flat as yet, but if we gel and get on, I’d be happy to adopt him after just as soon as I go and get the basics. Wether this was misunderstood on their part, or a miscommunication by me I don’t know, but meeting Chester was very awkward. He wouldn’t come near me and just didn’t seem that interested, and the rescue owner took one look around my living space and asked: “Litter tray?” Mortified, I tried to explain that I hadn’t bought anything yet as I wanted to meet the cat first, and it all ended on a low note as they needed to take Chester home. Needless to say, I didn’t pursue rehoming with them, and after another experience with them (more on that in a little while), I’m really glad I didn’t.

Losing hope, I decided to try widening my net a bit, to see if I could adopt from anywhere further afield, and thanks to a local, cat loving Facebook group I was in, where I’d been sharing my story and issues I was pointed in the direction of The A.R.C – Ashmore Rescue For Cats based in Wolverhampton, but willing to rehome around the UK pending homechecks. I got in touch with the owner, a lady named Sally and over ensuing weeks, had many conversations about adopting in my circumstances – and the difference was like night and day! Her warmth and openness put me immediately at ease, as did her assurances that my disability shouldn’t be a barrier to pet ownership; she had in fact rehomed to various other people around the country in similar situations to my own. Just to have somebody listen and want to help you find a solution helped; somebody seeing what you can offer instead of how your disability restricts you is really empowering, and I cannot thank her and the fosterers who allowed us to meet at their home enough. Sally matched me with Milo, a then 10 month old tabby who was found as a stray wandering the M6, and soon enough we arranged a date for us to drive to Wolverhampton and collect him.

The night before we did so, I’d posted on the aforementioned Facebook group that I was going to adopt my boy and collecting him the following day, and if there was any advice anyone had for helping him get settled. The owner of the rescue where Chester was from commented that she was “very sad I’d chosen to go through with adoption” and among other things, that she “felt sorry for the cat and my carer’s having this responsibility.” What’s worse was the fact that complete strangers were responding to her asking if the cat would be safe with me. She, who’d met me on a single occassion and knew next to nothing about me and my set up had decided that I wasn’t worthy. I was so wound up and upset by this that I left the group. What that means is as far as I’m aware, my post and the ensuing comments will have been deleted so I have no proof of this, but I do have proof I responded privately to her comments with this:

“I’m very sorry you feel sad I went ahead with adoption, and that our visit did not go as I believe we both would have liked – namely the cat finding a home. Since that time, my circumstances have changed in that I have new carers, and all three of us are on board with my decision and will make it work. The lady who owns the rescue I have gone with is fully aware of my disability and is happy to rehome to me (in fact she has rehomed to others in similar situations) and has matched me with this particular cat as a result of numerous conversations. I understand you are concerned about the welfare of the cat, so if you want to know how we are getting on, I’d be happy to keep you in the loop to set your mind at rest”. This message was seen, but not replied to. I know what I make of that and personally find it rather telling 😉

I adopted Milo on 19^th May 2019, and in the short time I’ve had him, he’s changed my life. He’s cheeky and loving and has settled into life with me and my PA’s very quickly. He’ll want to cuddle and be near visitors the minute they arrive. He likes playing laser chase and with his squeaky mouse. He prefers to drink from the tap rather than his bowl, watch out of my bedroom window and chew shoelaces.

Though my PA’s do help care for him, specifically in terms of putting food down and keeping his litter tray clean, I resent the implication that Milo is anything but my responsibility. I keep the cupboards full so he can eat, the toys to hand and pay for his insurance and any vet bills he might have. I didn’t go into pet ownership on a whim, but researched it for months on end, as any responsible owner does. Milo seems totally unfazed by my limitations (in fact he loves having three people around to dote on him throughout the week) and we’ve found the way things work for us – he’ll “supervise” while Shelley or Bobbi is getting me dressed, and has been known to sit and sleep in my wheelchair when I’m not in it. It’s wonderful having that kind of bond and company when the girls go home at the end of their shift. He’s now a year old and I look forward to many more years together, amidst all the hate and judgement we found out there!