The pet I’ll never forget: Denis the cat, the ugly rogue who taught me to love myself

In 1999, we adopted a tabby kitten, whom we named Denis, along with his mum, Fleur. She ran away shortly after (I blame my mother for calling her Fleur) and left Denis with us, but he couldn’t have been in better care. He became the 11th member of the Wyatt animal kingdom, joining five cats, a golden retriever named Stanley, two goldfish, Beavis the hamster and Otto the leopard gecko.

Denis was the youngest of the cats – and the ugliest. Now, you’re probably looking at his picture and calling me out for ugly-shaming. But cats are the supermodels of the animal world – you just need to look at any cat-owner’s phone, which will be full of pictures of their photogenic feline. They have expressive eyes, undulating tails, adorable paws and symmetrical faces. For a cat to be unattractive is quite an achievement.

A better way to put it might be that Denis looked “different”. He had short bow legs, a big belly and ears the size of satellite dishes. But what he lacked in looks he more than made up for in personality. He had the charm of a matinee idol and the swagger of the bad boy your mother warned you against.

I was 13 years old and in the depths of my awkward phase, with buck teeth, thick glasses and a short, skinny frame. I, too, was different. I didn’t cope well with my teenage years and did everything I could not to stand out.

Denis, on the other hand, embraced his difference. He was a lovable rogue who disappeared for days, but always returned with a gift for me – a mouse, a bird and once a dragonfly. He would sleep off his late-night exploits cuddled up on the bed with me. He would often come back soaking wet; my mum would dry him with a piece of kitchen roll. He would purr and then give her a playful bite, as if to remind her who the badass in the household was.

Denis never bit me. He didn’t care what I looked like. He loved me for me and taught me to do the same. I became confident, funny and charismatic, just like Denis. He had a self-deprecating humour, too. He often misjudged the height of the kitchen worktop and would come tumbling down. He would style it out with a cheeky look, as if to say: “I meant to do that.” Because of him, I survived secondary school and beyond. His confidence, charm and mischievousness helped me understand that it’s what’s on the inside that counts.

I eventually got orthodontic treatment and contact lenses and made several cosmetic improvements. Still, thanks to Denis, I embraced who I was on the inside and let it shine. I now have a new cat, Hobbes, who is incredibly beautiful. He has taught me nothing except that people will do anything for you if you’re good-looking enough.