In Sickness & in Health: I miss my Badger but applaud his lofty ambitions

Last year, Rebecca’s husband Nick was hit by a car and seriously injured. Here, in one of a series of columns, she writes about the aftermath of his accident

My dad is slowly learning to refer to Badger as “him” rather than “it (Alamy)

My cat has become obsessed with the loft. It must seem like a magical world to Badger: it’s high up, full of interesting things and absolutely off limits to him. Every time the ladder comes down, his button eyes widen as he stares at the portal in the ceiling. He also loves the airing cupboard. Its top shelf, in particular, calls to him. It’s high up, full of soft, warm towels and linen and, yep, off limits to him. If he manages to dart in there, he’s realised that if he makes it to the highest shelf, no one can reach him to hoik him out of his freshly laundered nest. He also loves having a carpeted staircase to gallop up and down. He can peek through the bannister and survey the hunting ground (hallway) below, and make a fast getaway if he hears the dread sound of the vacuum cleaner in full voice.

Part of the reason why he’s enjoying these things so much is that they’re all new to him. In my basement flat there was no attic, no airing cupboard and no flight of stairs. Now that he’s living with my dad and stepmother, he has these wonders all the time. And he seems very happy about it. He’s shiny, stroked, sleek and well brushed. My dad is slowly learning to refer to Badger as “him” rather than “it”, and has even been spotting playing peek-a-boo with him on the stairs. My stepmother seems resigned to getting her toes nibbled in bed and enjoys her morning snuggles with the world’s fluffiest cat, even if she could well live without the occasional pile of vomit to clear up.

And I am... glad and sad in equal measure. I am so grateful to my folks for taking in Badger at a time when he was spending days on his own in London. I am relieved that I don’t have to feel guilty about his welfare, freeing up valuable guilt to torture myself in other ways. I hope that they are finding their new lodger to be more of a pleasure than a pain, and I know that, one day, when my life isn’t mainly spent on the M25 driving between work and London and the care home and Kent and back, Badger will come back to me.

But I’m sad. The selfish, mad cat lady inside me feels incomplete without my familiar. I miss coming home to Badger, who was always so pleased to see me. I love that my stepmum is looking after him so well, but my heart breaks a little bit when he canters towards her, rather than me. I like the fact that Nick can visit Badger at my folks’ house, but I cry inside when the cat backs away from the stranger on wheels, and will only approach his erstwhile owner with coercion and when offered slices of ham.

I know that cats can be fair- weather friends with their eyes on the tuna chunk-flavoured prize, but it stings. I console myself with the quiet times when I’m sitting at my parents’ and call Badger’s name and he still comes to me, purring madly. “He doesn’t snuffle anyone in the same way he snuffles you,” my little brother tells me. Perhaps Badger’s glad and sad, too. Or maybe he’s just thinking of new ways to tackle the attic.