Harry is an online dating asset – all my matches like cats. He is also the ersatz fourth member of the family

Something is wrong. “Is Harry in?” I don’t claim a sixth sense but, with no rational reason, I have arrived home and am immediately fearful for Harry, Helen’s humongous Siberian cat. “As we left for Matt’s music lesson, Harry headed into the garden,” replies Helen’s sister Sarah, who helps on Mondays, bringing her sibling’s joy and values to the kids. I peer out into the darkness with inexplicable apprehension.

Once, when Millie was three months old, I left her in her pram at a post office. The further I walked, the greater the grip of ill-defined but icy unease. Back at the car, this became a double-handed yank of manic panic as the empty straps of her car seat shouted, “You’re a dad now, dickhead.” I sprinted back pursued by hellish visions of loss and calamity that might befall my abandoned baby. She was fine and I’ve been lucky not to feel that same cold touch since; until now. I run into the garden, shrilly screaming, “Harry, Harry, Harreeeeee”, like a tweeny Potter fan on premiere night.

Harry should be in the garden. He always is. Not wanting him lost, run over or stolen, when Helen’s kitten arrived a few months before she died, I bought a cat fence. There is a radio wire encircling the garden that sends a signal to his collar if he tries to escape, which buzzes ever louder before delivering a small static shock. Like a Pavlov’s pussy, he backs away at the first buzz, thwarted but unharmed.

“Dogs are a five on the shock setting but cats must be 10 – they see a squirrel and go!” warned the salesman. I had visions of a cartoon cat with fur on end but, in practice, it seems less cruel than him being run over or nicked. It is not just for his sake, but I fear terribly telling the children that Harry has gone. He is the ersatz fourth family member and a lovely living reminder that their mum was once here too.

So Harry is free to roam our roomy garden with its hidey-hole bushes, trees to climb and wildlife to terrorise, gloriously ignoring the seller’s, “Must be a house cat, Mr Golightly.” Outside, he is slightly feral – wrapping his front legs around grey squirrels, dispatching them with raw paw-power. Luckily, around the house, Harry is, in every sense, a pussycat.

And now there he is, mewing unhappily in a neighbour’s garden after taking a treetop escape route, newly accessible now that his increasing size allows him to leap greater distances. The wire’s signal meant he couldn’t then return; so, collarless, he is now heading home in the arms of an ecstatic Millie and Matt. I follow, almost mute with relief, barely yelping when his collar, safely tucked in my rain-dampened pocket, zaps my arse as I walk too close to the fence.

“Dad, you didn’t need to panic!” lectures Matt. He’s right. But after a lifetime of longing for a cat, Helen found in Harry the magical one she wasn’t allergic to, and maybe the intensity of her love for him has made mine that much greater.

However, Harry’s sphere of influence extends outside his wire-fenced prison garden. He is an outstanding online dating asset, flattering by association the middle-aged schmuck who feeds him. Almost all my matches “like cats”, and Harry inspires easy banter. Some are chaste, knowledgable observations, “Oh, he’s blue eyed. That must mean he’s from the Neva river”; others are baser wordplay in a fun way, which Mrs Slocombe from Are You Being Served? would enjoy – she of, “Oh, look! It’s a diamanté collar for my pussy.”

Harry is also unafraid to pass judgment on people, to the dismay of lovely local Katie, a smart, kind, sexy date who likes kids, cats and me. Instead of Harry’s “love me” tummy roll, Katie was greeted by an appalling caterwaul and carpet-claw action. Maybe she had a squirrel stuffed in her handbag; whatever, it was hard not to sense deep disapproval and things somehow ground to a halt between us.

Looking now into Harry’s eyes, I see something mystical. I really do. Crazy cat man or weird widower in need of urgent treatment? Harry would probably suggest shock therapy.

Adam Golightly is a pseudonym

@MrAdamGolightly