We stole her originally, way back in 1987, from a local family of serial kitten collectors, who acquired cute baby animals for their spoilt, demanding daughters, and then forgot all about them when they got too old, too big, or too expensive. In cross-section, she would have looked like a pear - her thin protruding spine atop the bulging mass of kittens in her belly. Her long fluffy black fur was matted, and dirty because she was too pregnant to wash thoroughly. Her little sister, a black and white shorthair, was in just as bad a condition.

With the assistance of an imposingly large friend, active in animal rights, we took the cats - barely more than kittens themselves - from the family. He took the shortie. We had the little fluffy black cat and she became Sheba, for her regal bearing even under the adversity of neglect.

The vet pronounced her malnourished, but basically healthy. We fed her, cleaned her, and soon she produced a litter of four healthy tuxedo shorthair kittens, which we named in keeping with her royal lineage, George, Leonora, Elizabeth and Sophie.

Sheba very quickly became "my cat". She was aloof from affection with most people, because they were too gentle with her - being fooled by her diminutive size and apparent fragility. Sheba liked nothing more than a vigorous, rapid scratching up and down her spine, and she would respond by purring, and sticking her nose into my eye sockets repeatedly - a practice known as 'snuzzing'.

In 1993 I left home, and my mother moved to Devon in the south-west of England. Sheba became an 'extended leave' cat, remaining with my mother because my student accommodation was not the place for such an aristocratic personage. Nevertheless, whenever I returned, Sheba was always the first to greet me, often streaking across the fields behind the house and sliding to a halt at my feet, miaowing, "pick me up!".

She was the queen of the house, sitting on the table at mealtimes, gradually inching towards the plates of the unwary, so they too could find out how cat toothmarks improve the taste of any meaty dish. She got the chair nearest the fire in the family room, and as she got older, she was permitted her own indoor litter tray, which the other cats were too scared to try to use.

She was an undisputed matriarch. She had lived with her son George since he was born, and upon moving to Devon, was introduced to my stepfather's two semi-feral farm cats, Sam and Sam (named because of their tendency to be identical, even at close quarters). She tolerated these ruffians, but ensured that she got the best of the titbits, first bite at the food dish, and respect from all parties. Her nickname was "the Queen Mother"; so much for irony.

My mother and her partner went on holiday three weeks ago, leaving all four cats in a trusted, local, luxurious boarding cattery. When they came back, there were only three. Sheba died peacefully in her sleep only a few days after they left.

She will be buried today at the foot of my mother's garden, under the silver birch tree, next to her mentor in the art of human-training, Willis the persian.

Rest peacefully, little cat, until I see you at the bridge.

Al.

In Loving Memory of Sheba

Copyright © Alphonze