Harvey came into our lives during a year of loss. It was 2004, and my grandmother had just died, quickly followed by our beloved cat Skeet (Manx English for “nosy”). With the family thrown into mourning, the house became eerily quiet and still, and my mother was grieving.

I was only 11, and did not know how to take care of her, but I did know that we needed the chaos and joy of a new cat. We found Harvey at the local cattery on the Isle of Man: he sat squeezed at the back of his pen, looking curiously at us with enormous, owl-like eyes. My mother smiled for the first time in months. We knew he was the cat for us.

Harvey settled in quickly and we adored him. He was loved because he was so human – he used door handles to let himself in, concocted schemes to steal catnip from the kitchen cupboard, and meowed in a broken “mah-ow” that sounded disquietingly similar to “hallo”. But mostly he was loved because he so obviously loved us back. When he found one of us upset, he would instinctively sit close and purr, his calm weight anchoring us to the world.

As I grew into my later teens, I started to become ill. It was not long after I’d started sixth form, and I was stressed and unhappy with the new pressures and fluctuating friend groups. I began to feel nauseous in the mornings, and soon began being sick before school each day, and then stopped being able to eat.

The doctors couldn’t find anything wrong with me. An endoscopy, colonoscopy, barium meal X-ray, and several scans later, my nausea was still a mystery to them. I became dangerously underweight, and was put on a feeding tube.

I spent a lot of time in bed, holding my stomach and trying not to be sick. I sank into loneliness like water – until Harvey began his daily visits to my bedroom. He would push the door open with his nose, pace in circles for a moment like a doctor doing their rounds, then hop on to the bed beside me and curl up by my sore stomach.

He became my permanent companion, my little shadow, and even after I once accidentally kicked him while rushing out of bed to be sick, he stayed stolidly in place. Sometimes, he would knead my stomach as though trying his best to heal me, his paws pressing into my tender muscles as though I were his kitten. He was an exceptional cat.

After several months and new medication, I began to get better. I eventually went to university while Harvey remained with my parents until he had a sudden stroke, and had to be put to sleep. He loved me in the patient way that cats do, and taught me what it means to care for someone without expectation. I can only hope that we gave him the same.