I fostered a kitten in S'pore in hopes of adopting her. I fell in love, but it didn't work out.

"She's about 0.9kg," her fosterer explained. At our approach, the tiny kitten darted behind the bed, peeking out at us with huge, wary eyes.

I'd wanted to adopt a pet for a while. Growing up in a household full of animals, a pet had always been a prerequisite feature of my perfect family life.

Unfortunately, dogs were out (I'm quite allergic), and smaller critters typically required cages, something I was loath to have. I wanted a pet that could roam around freely and cuddle with me, as much family as anyone else.

That first visit was kind of information overload. At just three months, Tori had boundless energy and enjoyed playing with toys. She liked soft things and ate like a frat boy. She was independent and would occupy herself when bored.

My husband and I never had a cat before, and I found myself struggling to keep track of the details. "How many times a day does she eat again?" I asked at least thrice.

It took a while, but my husband, Bryan, finally managed to grab her (gently, just below her front paws but above her stomach, as the fosterer had advised). She paused to look at him before zipping off again, in pursuit of yet another distraction.

"She's just a kitten," the fosterer said, in somewhat helpless explanation.

Later, we would look over videos of her antics. In one video, she pounced at a toy and promptly fell off the bed. In another, she chased her tail with the relentless determination of a labrador retriever.

Tornado, Bryan suggested, when we discussed naming her. It was nearly perfect — but just a touch too long, and too masculine.

"Tori," I bargained. Short and sweet.

Two days later, we brought her home. "She does look like a Tori," Bryan later admitted, as she launched herself at a toy and bashed her head against the sofa leg.

Waking up to meows

I'd say that we took to pawrenting like a dream, but I'd be lying.

Granted, we were lucky: Tori ate well, played well, and slept beautifully. We were never bothered by the scratching-on-door horror stories I'd heard from other cat owners; our sleep went blissfully uninterrupted.

Still, the first few days were complicated. She spent the entire first day hiding in the furthest corners of the room and underneath the sofa, refusing to come out.

"Should we just move the sofa?" Bryan asked.

The first night.

She eventually did emerge. Her transition from terrified newcomer to comfortable housemate seemed at once both painfully slow and near-instantaneous.

One day she was all anxiety, barely working up the nerve to leave her corner for meals; the next she was out and about, leaping up onto tabletops, curiously exploring every nook and cranny of her new home.

Before long, Tori had become part of our routine. She'd taken to meowing behind the bedroom door in the mornings, once her sharp little ears had detected that we were awake.

Bryan — always the earlier riser of the two of us — would get out of bed to prepare her breakfast. I'd follow soon after to toss her a ball or entertain her with a cat toy. Just like that, our morning lie-ins were history.

Our conversations began to gravitate around Tori. Whether to put her in the cage or not; what her meows meant. One day, I rage-texted Bryan after Tori had launched herself onto my work laptop and promptly knocked it off the sofa.

"Smack her," Bryan suggested. (I didn't.)

In retrospect, it was pretty precarious.

In hopes of enjoying some quiet time together, I decided one day to order a fancy Japanese meal for a stay-in date night. We hadn't even had our first bite before Tori leapt onto the table and began sniffing at the fixings.

"Get your own food," I pointed out. She resolutely ignored me, instead plonking her butt on the table and eyeing our food in a decidedly predatory, impossible-to-ignore way.

Our date night ended with us feeding her bites of ikura.

We had to remove her from the table to take this photo.

Developing allergies

About a week in, I noticed Bryan sniffling. "Are you allergic?" I asked suspiciously. He shrugged.

Having lived with a family dog I was allergic to for the past half-decade, this was a disconcerting thought. I knew I never wanted to live with an allergy again, nor would I put my husband through it; yet I'd grown to love that little kitten. Lately, she'd started bounding onto my lap for cuddles and naps, her warm body resting quietly on mine.

My fears would turn out to be true. Bryan's symptoms persisted, and I began developing symptoms of my own. I'd spend too much time at home and find myself struggling for breath. Even with antihistamines, I found no relief.

Asthma runs in my family, and I was terrified of developing the condition as well. Most heartbreakingly of all, I found myself leaving the house more and more often just to be able to breathe.

Every time I returned, Tori would slink around my ankles as she always did, eager to have me home. But after a few moments, I'd feel that breathlessness returning, and flee to my bedroom for solace.

A few days later, we reached a decision. I texted Tori's rescuer to tell her that we would not be able to adopt her. "I will search for a foster space," was the reply.

I looked down at the grey kitten dozing next to me. My heart broke a little.

Saying goodbye

Two days before Tori's departure, her cat hammock arrived. I considered it for a while, wondering if I should just sell it online, before tearing off the packaging.

"Whatever," I said, as she watched me assemble the hammock, inquisitive as always. "It was always meant for you anyway."

Ironically, it took her two days to grow comfortable with the hammock. Like I mentioned. Both so fast, in the grand scheme of things — and yet so very nearly too late.

I'd tried to push back her departure in spite of my worsening allergies. Bryan was overseas, I'd protested; he'd want to say goodbye on her last day. We don't need transport. We don't need help. We'll drive her over. We just need time.

It has to be today, the rescuer said.

That afternoon, I cuddled her for as long as I could. She was uncharacteristically languid, lounging in my lap. Trusting and content.

I proffered all her favourite toys, and fed her all her favourite food. When I felt the symptoms start to kick in, I popped an antihistamine in desperation. For once, thankfully, it worked.

Afternoon, then sunset. I insisted on pushing back her departure by an hour — an hour and a half. The rescuer agreed. The minutes continued to tick by.

Finally, reluctantly, I began packing up her things. Her toys first — that wasn't unusual, I'd do that every day while vacuuming. Then her scratching bed. Her food and water bowl.

She'd followed me around curiously for the most part, but by the time I got to her litter box, Tori had hidden in a corner. It was the first time she'd done so since those first few days. Somehow, she'd realised that something was wrong.

Wondering where her stuff is going.

Hiding in a corner.

The last ten minutes were agonising. She refused to come out of her hiding spot. I was holding back tears, watching the time, waiting for the doorbell to ring.

Finally, the rescuer arrived. I'd hoped for a tearful farewell, the chance to hug her one last time.

"Sorry," the rescuer told me, "the driver is waiting downstairs." She pushed the sofa aside, grabbed Tori, and tucked her into a small carrier. And then made to leave.

I refused to let that be the last time I saw Tori. "Let me help," I said, and took the carrier from her before she could say no.

As we went down in the lift, I whispered to her, under my breath: It's okay, it's okay. She stared up at me, unable to even meow, her pupils dilated. It's okay.

Looking for a home

Nothing could have prepared me for how devastating it was to lose a family member. In all honesty, if I knew, I'm not sure I would have tried to adopt Tori at all.

But maybe I still would have. Even in that precious short time, it would have been impossible not to fall in love with her. Sweet and affectionate and beautiful; so devastatingly clever, and yet so terribly clumsy. "Our Torinado," as my husband called her in a goodbye post on Instagram.

And yet, as a stray cat of no pedigree, with no particular appeal except that heart and vivacity that so few get to see, I don't know if Tori will ever find a home again.

But I know she would just love one. And I really hope that somewhere out there, there's a house waiting for her, and a family waiting to welcome her home.