We used to have a cat before Henry.  Her real name is Lady Baby Cotton Socks and she has her own limerick:

Lady Baby Cotton Socks

That’s what my cat is called.

She has her mother’s pitch black locks

And someone else’s cotton socks

whom mum most likely balled.

When we moved into our first place with a garden in South Africa, it took less than a week and Socks moved in.  I had never had a pet (save two neglected budgies when I was little) and I wanted a cat.  My husband wasn’t keen.  “Cats smell”, he stated categorically. It took me a while to find out where this supposed knowledge came from: he’d had a friend whose mum kept 40+ cats.  40+ cats smell.  No argument there.

It was winter so kittens weren’t plentiful and I followed the first “kitten to give away” sign I found.  I ended up in one of the seriously rich neighbourhoods of Johannesburg, their driveway from the gate to the house was longer than the whole cul-de-sac we lived in.  When I approached the house a black and white cat came running towards me.  “Oh, is that the mother?” I exclaimed.  “No, that’s the kitten.”  I was immediately smitten.

Socks looked fully grown (she wasn’t but her long hair made her look a lot bigger than she actually was) and gorgeous.  I took her with me and ended up with her climbing all over me, trying to settle on my head while I was driving since the box I had brought was far too small for her.

Lothar who’d been against a cat (see above) took one look at her and it was love at first sight.  I often wonder if he ever looked so adoringly at me.

Socks is a wonderful, beautiful, elegant cat.  She was well behaved from the word go (never climbed on tables and counters while we were home, not because I had such great training  skills but because she decided she wouldn’t do it).  She caught less than five birds while she lived with us, at least never brought any as prey home with her.  She defended me from a snake and a bat (which admittedly she had brought those in the house) and she would eat crickets and Parktown prawns on demand, usually leaving a leg so I could admire her prowess and willingness to please us.

Except for noxious insects, she was a finicky eater preferring fresh fish to anything else – which forced me to learn how to gut fish.  She loved to be brushed (and reminded me about it by throwing up on my feet if I got negligent).  She purred as loud as any cat I ever met.

She moved with us to Zimbabwe when she was 14 and almost died in the process.  We (Lothar, two small kids, me) drove the 15 hour drive (including the 3 hour wait at the border)  in a car and thought we’d spare our little aristocat the stress by placing her in a kennel and letting her take a plane once we were in our new house.  Well, she never ate a bite in her luxury B&B accommodation and the airline misplaced her travelling box which left me wandering in the airport storage halls of Harare for a day until I finally found her. She was very weak but recovered soon.

So, when we had to leave Zim three and a half years later to an unsure destiny of unknown months in Germany before moving to Saudi Arabia, we decided to leave her in the care of an elderly lady.  We never heard from her again which is why to this day I refuse to believe that anything  changed.  Socks is alive and well and living in Harare.  She is 38 now and going strong.