All felines, whether resident or visiting, are given names, primarily for identification purposes. Kittens are usually given names very early on in their lives, but sometimes receive another name, a nick-name or character name, as they grow up and their characteristics develop.

And thus it is that Whitefur, first-born to The Cat in spring last year, comes to bear two nicknames – ‘Miss Sunny Side Up’ and ‘Wicked Child’. It goes without saying that she answers to neither.

Female kittens born to The Cat are feisty individuals, no doubt following in their mother’s pawsteps. This being said, they have all been very different in character. Whitefur was a fast developer from day one. She was the first to open her eyes, the first to come out of the nest of long grass where she and her two brothers spent their first weeks, the first to approach the humans. Her colouring is quite different from other female kittens of recent years as she isn’t a classic tortoiseshell or calico. In all probability her father was Mr Tiffin, a grey and white cat with tabby markings, living a feral life in the fields on his terms, her mother of course The Cat, classic tortoiseshell combination of black/chocolate, cinnamon/ginger and a bit of white. So to have a female who is mostly white came as a bit of a surprise to all, especially as Whitefur combines her mother’s sassy tortoiseshell character with a softer side, a side which craves attention from the humans…but only when she demands it.

And demand it she does.

Having worked out how to access the upstairs terrace, her work in fine-tuning the training of the humans began in earnest. In fact, her work is not yet done, but she has certainly put a lot of effort into it so far. Her afternoons are often spent on the terrace, fast asleep, listening to the comings and goings indoors. At the slightest hint of the arrival of a human on the terrace, she will flop over, her white belly stretched out ready to receive affection, her sunny side up, paws kneading happily, her neck extended in happy anticipation of cuddles. And all this while she is still asleep. Go up to her quietly, touch her, and she will rocket into an upright position, looking affronted that anyone has dared interrupt a perfectly good sleep.

If she decides the humans are sadly lacking in their level of attention to her, she will scale the half-height fixed fly-screen at the back door, carefully negotiating the drop at the back inside the woven cotton fly curtain, not with any burning desire to run riot in the house, but merely to lie on the doormat. The doormat which is only a few inches inside the house. And there she lies, this small, white, furry wicked child, kneading her claws on the mat, having a wash, owning the entire space, sometimes completely unbeknownst to the humans.

Tell her off? How could you?