It's Christmas Eve and the Kenny household is echoing with festive noises. The kettle is whistling for hot whiskies, the lid on the ham pot is rattling. Harry Potter's TV spell-casting is competing with a CD of carol-singing from the kitchen. It's by an African gentleman called 'Mr Omundi' and his 'No 1 Singers'. "Sah-lent naht, hole-ehh naht", they sing, sunnily.

Mrs Kenny is on the couch with a mince pie, sighing contentedly between nibbles. Outside, carollers are rattling tin cans – as they race past our house. (Last year, I nearly caught one.)

I'm in the kitchen, enthusiastically stuffing the turkey, remembering various bastards that have shafted me over the years. I am whistling louder than the kettle.

This, by Kenny standards, constitutes a happy Christmas scene.

There is also a new noise this year – purring. Minnie the cat (1½) is sitting beside me with a cork. This is her first proper Christmas and, aware of the buzz, she wants to play.

Let's stop here for a moment. If you're not an animal lover, you may not 'get' this column. It's about pets, their owners and rejection. If you've bought an animal for Christmas it might be worth reading.

In 2009, I found myself back freelancing for the first time in 25 years. This wasn't by choice and the readjustment to working alone at home was difficult and depressing. I had always wanted a pet, so we decided to finally get one for company during the day.

I put out word that I wanted a rescue cat and received a picture of Frodo. She had enormous, sad green eyes. I called to Bray Vets and met her, wrapped in a towel. (She was wearing the towel, not me.) Tiny and vulnerable, she had been left dying outside the clinic, but had beaten the odds.

"They told you about her leg?" the nurse asked me, too casually. No.

She put Frodo down and she slunk across the floor. Her back leg stuck out at an alarming angle: it had been badly broken. She stared up at me and I felt immense pity for her – but her leg freaked me out. I left without her. I couldn't spring a disabled cat on my wife. Frodo had suffered a second rejection. We never saw each other again.

Only joking. What do you think I am? The following day, the newly-renamed 'Minnie' rattled home to Dalkey in a car stuffed with cat treats and spent the day hiding behind the sofa.

"She's very nervous," I said to Gill as she came in from work.

"Really?" she replied as Minnie came out and sat on her lap, purring. They bonded on sight. I sulked. I was the one who needed cheering up.

I fussed over Minnie for weeks and even wiped her backside on one horrible occasion. She blossomed into a ludicrously cute ball of angora. My mood brightened.

Then one day she got spooked and mauled my arm. I roared at her. From then on, she hid whenever she saw me. I probably reminded her of previous mistreatments. I resigned myself to the fact that I'd blown her trust.

One night, weeks later, I dozed off and dreamed that someone was sand-papering my head. I woke to find Minnie licking my hair. It was disgusting, but I knew she was making amends.

Now we're inseparable and she greets me every morning with a headbutt and a play fight. She's crap at being a cat: she's too affectionate and loyal. She sits beside me when I'm writing and runs across the keyboard after the cursor (the spellling miiiiistakes are hers). Sometimes, to make her howl, I play my banjo for her. The other day I heard a plinkety-plonk crash and found the banjo on the floor. I suspect sabotage.

We have various games. Her fav­ourite is where I fling corks at her and she tries to 'save' them, like a wonky-legged goalie. (She falls over a lot.)

Then there's the H-Block litter-tray game that you don't want to know about.

There's the scare-the-crap-out-of-me game, where I wake to find her washing herself on my pillow, with her botty winking hideously at me.

There's the ambush game, where she hides, snuffling, under the Christmas tree and pounces on my leg. I have to pretend to be surprised as she chases me around the sitting room, ricocheting off the furniture.

That's the thing about Minnie. She doesn't know she's 'wonky'. All she knows is that she's happy – and her happiness is infectious.

Minnie was abandoned in early February, which means she was probably an unwanted Christmas gift. Her previous owners don't realise what a mistake they made.

This year, 4,000 animals like her have been taken in the DSPCA. That's the 'message' part of this column. The 'a pet's not just for Christmas' line. I won't labour it. Just remember it if you gave or received a pet yesterday.

Have a peaceful Christmas. Minnie certainly is.

dkenny@tribune.ie

ISPCA Helpline: 1890 515 515