My first cat was a demure little tabby named Emmeline Pankhurst, who whipped all the toms on my street within her first week with me (hence the name). Emmeline saw no particular reason why she couldn't go with me whenever I left the house. It was often easier simply to take her with me than to try to leave her behind -- I was living in Germany then, and Europeans are far less wrapped around the axle than North Americans about animals in public places. She was always a hit at the gasthaus on the corner, where the landlord would give her a bit of fish.

Of course, I couldn't take her to work (I was a medic at a Canadian Forces base hospital). Emmeline always knew where I was going -- the white dress was a dead giveaway -- and would fling herself into the car through the window or the sunroof given half a chance. If she couldn't get into the car, she would sit on the bonnet and mew at me piteously through the windscreen.