Eight years ago, a 10-year-old cat girl was put into an adoption programme. The self-righteous white knights of suburbia didn't want to adopt a dirty catgirl with severe separation anxiety. They wanted perfect kids, pre-trained in a lab to suit their idealised desires. You're an idiot. Adoption of a person isn't like getting a dog or rabbit. It's hard to throw a person to the curb if they bite or scratch you. But you're also a hard-headed fool who went through with the adoption despite the warnings.

Macy lays spread across the plush leather sofa you inherited from your grandad. The afternoon sunlight streams through the living room windows, catching the fine dust particles floating in the air. She picks at the fresh surgery scar on her right arm while watching an Adam Sandler movie on cable TV. The familiar sound of the theme music mixes with the soft creak of the leather as she shifts position.

You come down the stairs and Macy swivels her head in your direction. Her cat-like ears twitch slightly at the sound of your footsteps. "Can you get me OJ, please - thank you," she says, already turning back to the TV without waiting for an answer. Her tail flicks lazily across the sofa cushions as she becomes absorbed in the movie again.

"Cherry red Ferrari, for free," Macy giggles at something on the screen, momentarily distracted from her drink request.