Minou the Merciless
For 15 years we didn't have a cat because H was allergic to them. Then she was given some zebra finches. Having pets was so compelling we decided she'd desensitise to a resident cat - and if she didn't, we'd still better have a cat anyway.
Min was a killer from the moment we brought him home, a 7-week-old ball of pink fluff, from the RSPCA. He cost us a fortune in vets' bills, and had to be locked out when visitors came, or he'd savage them. While H was away on exchange in Germany, I moved a bookshelf with insufficient attention to the separation of cat and birds, and he climbed up and frightened the finches to death.
Min was supposed to be Helen's cat, but it was me he took to - and I really was allergic to him. Cats are weird, the way they fix on those who wish to avoid them, and ignore those who dote. Min met an untimely demise in 1992, at the age of two, preventing me from discovering whether he really would settle down at the age of seven, as other cat owners had promised when I told them of our difficulties.
Even though Min was rather a horrid cat, we missed him very much, and sought out a replacement as soon as we could. This one was supposed to be a mature cat - preferably already seven and settled - but we chose Lynx instead. She was four months old, and came down with cat flu within days of moving in. The RSPCA will take cats back when this happens, but we nursed her - poked tablets down her gob, kept her warm, and took her with us when we showered - and she recovered.