We went down to my parents' house for a visit today. Not just for a casual visit actually - our littl'un has been staying there since Tuesday on her own. That is to say, without me and her mother; my parents were still there of course (how cruel would it be to invite a seven year old to stay, and then leave? - understandable yes, but still cruel). It's not the first time she's holidayed without us, but crucially it is the first time she's stayed at Mum & Dad's without deciding that she wants to sleep with Granny, thus relegating my Dad to the spare bedroom. This time my little girl stayed in the guest room, which is rather pleasing (not least to Grandpa who gets to sleep in his own bed). So anyway, after five days sunning herself in the exotic climes of Cornwall, we went to pick her up today.

Those of you still suffering post-traumatic stress from reading about my underwear will shudder to recall that my parents' house has been the source of an anecdote, and indeed a column, or two in the past, and this visit turned out to be no exception. At one point we got onto comparing notes - did she eat well, what time did she go to bed, etc, etc - and the subject of night-lights came up. Mum said that she had left the landing light on for our little girl during the night, and I agreed that we do the same at home (albeit without elaborating that it is left on for my benefit as well). I then, rather rashly as it turned out, mentioned that I also left the kitchen light on every night, for the cats.

This provoked much scorn and hilarity (but mainly scorn) from the two Mrs Curnows (Miss Curnow would probably have joined in but she was too busy playing hide & seek at the time) since apparently (now they tell me!) cats can see perfectly well in the dark. And yet even knowing that, I'm sure that I'll still leave the kitchen light on tonight - I want to be quite sure that our feline friends can see their food bowl, their water bowl, and their litter tray (and can tell the difference).

My Mum in fact has still not recovered from the shock of my having any animals at all. It could very convincingly be argued that I have gone from one extreme to the other - or, more specifically, from not being an animal person in any respect to having (wait for it) four rabbits, two guinea pigs, three hamsters, four rats, six mice, and fourteen gerbils. And six cats. (As a momentary aside, two of our rabbits recently escaped into next door's garden - and suddenly that episode of "The Good Life" with the pigs isn't quite so funny...) To be honest, as I may have said before, it wouldn't particularly bother me if we didn't have all those animals, but equally it doesn't really worry me that we do. The rabbits and guinea pigs are now happily ensconced in the shed out back, and of course all the other animals are housed in cages - so other than the fact that one corner of our sitting room resembles an urban sprawl of pet cages there's no real problem. A bit like the Sitting-Room of Dr Moreau...

The cats are different though. If they were to vanish overnight (as on occasion they have) I would be affected (as on occasion I am). There's something terribly pleasing and rewarding about them, although I readily admit though that I don't really know what it is. On paper there's nothing very appealing about a cat: they come and go as they please, they stay out all hours, they sleep for much of the day, and they don't contribute anything to the household except for the occasional suspect smell. In other words, they are teenagers.

I suppose that part of their appeal as pets is that they don't require all that much maintenance. They need to be treated for worms and fleas from time to time, but on a day-to-day basis there's not much to be done other than make sure they have food, water, and some fresh cat-litter. There's certainly no need to take them out for walks in all weathers, or be up at six in the morning to milk them.

But there is more to it than that. Generally speaking you can look into the eyes of a rat or a mouse or a guinea pig and not get much back other than a fairly blank, all-purpose rat/mouse/guinea pig sort of look. Looking at the cats though, there always seems to be a hint of something going on behind the eyes. We have half a dozen cats, but they all look at you differently - whether it be angst-ridden, uncomprehending, long-suffering, or wilfully disobedient, there seems to be a clear sense of individuality to them. We've sadly lost two cats this year, both victims of the main road, and one of them was sister to two of the cats we still have. Although it's true that, were it not for the intervention of the v-e-t in that department, the two brothers would almost certainly have mated with the sister if they could have, it's nevertheless also true that on some level they had some sense of connection. Both spent quite a few days aimless and lost, wandering where 'the missing one' had got to. Obviously trying to explain anything to a cat is even more thankless a task than explaining to a child how you blow your nose, but they do now seem to have accepted that Louise Mondia (their dead sister - don't ask me about the name, my daughter chose it) is gone.

We've had a few baby gerbils who didn't last, and various fish have died in the past, but there seems to be something more immediate, more grievous, about the death of a cat. I don't mean to suggest that we were in floods of tears, or that curtains were drawn at Curnow Towers, but whereas the dead fish were summarily dismissed down (and presumably around) the U-bend, and the baby gerbils were quickly eaten by their parents, the cats have been tastefully buried in particularly places in the front garden, with specially-selected plants on top to mark each spot. Although it was sad to lose them, at least they died being cats. I imagine they were out in the night chasing a vole or a moth or a rabbit, and ran across the road only to be hit - they would have gone in an instant, unaware of the moment, dying while still very much living the life of a cat.

Perhaps better that, than getting old and falling ill and just running down.

I don't know what the appeal of the cats is then, I only know that it's there. Every so often one of our half dozen will disgrace themselves on the carpet, and for a few nights they will be confined to the kitchen. But sooner or later one of us, normally me, will give in and leave them access to the rest of the house.

There are few things more relaxing than going to sleep curled up with a cat, and most of ours regularly sleep on either our bed or on our daughter's. Both physically and emotionally, a cat on the bed keeps you warm. Maybe it doesn't need to be any more complicated than that.