It's a cat, OK? It's not your child. I know you have no kids and are far too old now to have any; I know (because you told me and I'm considering hypnotherapy to make myself forget) that when you were of childbearing age you couldn't have kids due to "medical problems" (such as looking like Bernard Bresslaw in drag). But that's a cat, ok? And the pictures of it you keep on your computer? It's not "looking pleased with himself because he just won the cat show" you endlessly sad woman. IT'S-A-CAT.
Stop joining in conversations about people's children by telling them what your cat did last night.
Stop decorating your workstation with cat calendars, cat pictures and little model cats.
Stop ostentatiously reading your stupid fucking cat magazines while you're having lunch and especially stop loudly disagreeing with the columns in them. Nobody else gives even the remotest ghost of a shrew's shit about the magazine's opinions or yours.
In a few years, Lesley, your neighbours will have to break into your house, unable to ignore the smell any more, and they'll find your decayed remains from where you have died, unloved and alone except for the cats which will have feasted on your putrefying carcass and defecated in your hair. That's if whatever foul medical abnormality you suffer which has already bloated your ankles up to softball-sized balloons hasn't carried you off by then. I look to the day.