Claude

Claude was a beautiful, big, sweet-tempered grey tabby cat. Endlessly tolerant of small groping fingers, he was part of the family for most of my childhood. Claude was given to Mum as a wedding present, a practical gift indeed - every farm needs a cat. He was just a kitten then, but by the time I arrived he was full-grown, and sometimes found his way into photos.

Here's a somewhat reluctant Claude  beside me on the verandah. Later he liked to keep an eye on me, here we are in front of the boobialla hedge.

Mum was devoted to him, and he lived on the fat of the land, with plenty of milk and the occasional egg.
When we moved house (which we did, quite a few times) Mum took care to acclimatise him to the new home. He would be kept inside for three days, and Mum always put butter on his paws - apparently guaranteed to convince him that the new place was OK.

In his declining years, Mum used to make egg custard for our toothless friend, but finally the sad day arrived when he had to be put to sleep. We brought him home and buried him in the garden. There were a few damp eyes that day. He was sixteen years old.

It was many years later that the pun in his name finally occurred to me.