I’m not really a cat lover, which must be why I’ve been destined to live with the same feline for 22 years.

The older Cleo gets the more she rules our household. Her once delicate meow has become an ear-splitting yowl. She even answers the phone. When I pick up the hand piece she weaves between my ankles and starts screeching.

“That cat’s not still alive?” says the voice at the end of the line.

Callers who aren’t so closely acquainted hesitate in case I need to respond to the smoke alarm.

We raised her to be a low maintenance, outside cat. Back in the late 1970’s she preferred high places and spent a lot of time perched on top of the chimney. People said she looked like a witch’s cat. Sure, she had the black fur, green eyes and attitude. But I wasn’t sure it was a compliment.

She was no problem, even when we went away. A neighbour depositing a plate of mince on the doorstep twice a day would keep her more than happy.

Although small and lightly built, Cleo became an expert killer. If she was feeling particularly affectionate, she’d leave a selection of dead mice and birds in my shoes which would bring on a screaming fit.

We’ve all mellowed since then. The outside cat has grown into a (mostly) inside one. When we go on holidays these days we have to arrange for a live-in cat nanny. The only time we put her in a cattery she caught a horrible bug that nearly finished her off.

There’s nothing she likes more than a nanny. Cleo can reduce a cat nanny to an exhausted pulp in seven days, insisting on climbing into bed with her, yowling her awake at 5.30 every morning and charming her into providing saucers of milk (provoking a violent and terrifying form of cat diarrhea).

Some things have improved with time. I no longer pause in fear of feathers and mouse guts before putting on my shoes. The killer has become the hunted. Magpies chase Cleo down the garden path.

The chimney has been replaced by two beanbags strategically placed over heating vents. We bought the beanbags for the kids, who thought they were the coolest thing out. That was before Cleo molted and threw up all over them, changing their funky fake fur look into mud-splattered cow.

The bean bags became a health hazard after a few years. I couldn’t stand them any longer. One rubbish night when cloud drifted conveniently over the moon I snuck them outside and stuffed them in the old lady’s bin across the road (her bin’s always half empty).

Next morning I went to the pet shop and bought a perfectly practical bean bag with a bright blue, easy wipe plastic cover. Technically for dogs, it was big enough for an Alsatian. I knew Cleo would love it.

She refused to go anywhere near it. When I plonked her on the thing she behaved as if it was a nest of barbed wire. Maybe she didn’t like the blue plastic. I covered it with a towel. She still hated it.

“What can you expect?” said the 11 year-old. “It’s a dog’s bean bag.”

One thing about Cleo. I know when I’ve lost. I hurled the dog’s bean bag under the house in disgust. Not that we’re ever going to get a dog, but you never know. One day we might meet someone whose about to buy a retriever and they’ll say “You don’t happen to know anyone who has a hardly used dog’s bean bag?”

Seeing the child’s so in tune with Cleo she’s practically a cat whisperer, I took her to the pet shop. Cat beds these days are impossibly luxurious – leopard skin, tiger skin, white fur good enough for amovie star to curl up on.

No doubt they’re stuffed and stitched together by Asian villagers who sleep in hammocks if they’re lucky and prefer their cats on skewers with fried rice. She chose a cat bed stuffed with foam rubber and covered in orange velour.

“Except,” she added as we walked out the door. “It’s not furry enough.”

We went to the fabric shop and bought half a metre of fake fur, the most expensive stuff in store.

“You must be crazy about your cat,” said the assistant, chopping the cloth as if it was one of Elvis’ priceless white cloaks.

“No,” I replied. “The cat has driven us crazy.”