When people say their pets are part of the family, I agree. Just not in the way they think.

I have two cats. One is a mostly normal feline, meaning that she is a narcissistic serial killer with great PR. We call her Coconut or Lady Coconut or oh-my-word-is-that-another-bird-get-out-get-out, depending on the mood.

My other cat is Tyson or Baron von Tyson or get-out-of-the-laundry-basket-you-fool. He came into our lives as a very floofy, rather gormless kitten who had me Googling “can cats have Down Syndrome?” Yes, they can. No, he doesn’t.

He has grown into a very floofy, rather gormless adult cat who hates humans, loves food and has a passion for boxes. I know what you are thinking. He sounds like a pretty standard cat.

But Tyson is different. He is an ancestor on my paternal side, a male van der Bijl ancestor. This was an unexpected realisation.

I get the feeling he wasn’t that pleased about it either, but he didn’t say anything. Because he is a cat. And cats don’t speak.

It happened when I was doing a bones reading with a sangoma. I will take my direction and prayers from anywhere, and while deep in a gnarly challenge, I took the advice of a friend and gave it a go.

We started by bringing in the ancestors on both sides of my family and my guides, as well as some others that the sangoma thought should be there. All the usual suspects showed up.

Granny Gwen, GiGi, Grandpa John, then my mom, who is very much alive but seems to energetically pop in for these kinds of things, although she always denies it when I ask.

There were some hazy people as well, family long dead that I have never known. And then my mind’s eye looked down, and there is Baron von Tyson, slightly bored, looking at me like he has much better things to do than oversee this malarkey.

What on earth? I wait until everyone has been brought in and asked to assist for the highest good and healing of Sarah and the lineages, and then ask, “Why is my cat here?”

“Oh,” says the sangoma, “that happens sometimes. Probably an ancestor come to make sure you are doing what the family needs you to do.”

This makes no sense to me unless what I am meant to be doing in this lifetime is keeping the food bowl full, providing a steady supply of Takealot packaging and lying very, very still on cold nights.

I come home and tell my (very normal, mainstream) daughter the story. She looks at me dead on and says. “This makes so much sense! He loves food, he is so bossy, clumsy and terrible at being a cat.”

The realisation has changed our relationship. I now treat Baron von Tyson like proper family and assume he can understand every word I say. This has improved our interactions a lot.

He is still a fur-shedding, funny-looking, very odd cat. But now he is The Ancestor Cat and his quirks are The Quirks Of My Family.

It’s good to know that I am being looked after and taken care of. The fur I spend each day unsuccessfully lint-rolling off my clothes is a little hairy expression of familial love.

Last week’s cat vomit, which meant I had to go to the sink where I realised the gas stove had been left on by a human member of the household, is a sign of care. Being watched while I shower is a sign of connection.

I have gotten used to it, and to be honest, it’s pretty cool. And thank goodness I think so, because you can’t choose your family, so this one is here to stay.