I picked you.

There were three kittens in the sheep pen that day.

We'd always had cats growing up. The first one was a Siamese who lived to be 20, but we also adopted countless strays that'd come to beg at our door or kittens we found in my Dad's workshop. We once had a black cat we named Zaïre (the former name of the Democratic Republic of the Congo, how politically incorrect!), and a white female (very unfortunate colour) who hated baths even more than most cats. There was the ginger tom that hadn't been weaned properly, so for the rest of his life, he'd suck on my Mum's cardigan whenever he was on her lap. Even now, my parents have three cats - Albus, the lazy fat white cat, Yala, the sleek black female, and Jacob, the crazed kitten Mum found in the woods when he was a only tiny furball.

And so I had always wanted a cat of my very own. He'd be black and I'd give him a cool geeky name like Spock or Dr Sheldon Cooper.

About a year ago, a customer of my shop told me a female cat kept giving birth to kittens in his sheep pen, and asked me if I wanted one. So I set off with him to find my very own cat.

There were three kittens in the sheep pen that day. An older, sleek, black-and-rusty one who really wanted to make friends, a terrified fluffy grey female, and a slightly-less-terrified fluffy tabby. That was you.

There were three kittens in the sheep pen that day. The older one kept flirting with me, rubbing his head against my legs and asking for cuddles. But I picked you - the scared, fluffy, wide-eyed one.

The man picked you up and gave you to me. I held you close and I could feel how terrified you were. I brought you back home and as soon as I let go, you ran off and hid under the sofa. You didn't come out for about a week, and even after that, you wouldn't let me come close.

One day though, we started playing together with a piece of string. You loved it. After that, you warmed up to me, and eventually you let me stroke your back and hold you.

I named you Isaac, after the man who gave you to me.

Now you love lying streched out on my tummy and resting your head in the crook of my shoulder. You purr so loud it sounds like a little motor. You're no longer a tiny fluffy kitten: you're a big, strong cat - but still fluffy.

There were three kittens in the sheep pen that day. I could have picked any one of them, but I picked you, Isaac, my very own cat.