WE named her Lottie, later sometimes adding Dod (single ‘d’). Occasionally, I could be heard calling the name along a quiet road in our village.

One day, a resident passing in his car stopped, lowered the window and asked: “What’s that name you call out?” “Lottie”, I replied. “No, the other name,” he inquired. “Dod,” I told him. After a slight pause, he said: “Wasn’t she a tennis player?”

Indeed she was. The youngest-ever Wimbledon singles champion at 15, she won the tournament five times between 1887 and 1893 and then quit through boredom. She became women’s amateur golf champion, collected an Olympic medal for archery and was a principal founder/player of the England women’s hockey team. The Guinness Book of Records acclaims her as “the most versatile female athlete of all time”.

Our Lottie (Dod) – we think – was no less notable. Her 18-year life itself was virtually a miracle. A tabby farm cat, she wandered to our feet as a kitten while we were choosing another cat from the same litter. Thin, and with matted eyes, she presented a pitiful sight. “We can’t leave her,” said my wife. “She’ll not last the night,” warned the farm wife.

The vet who treated her that evening half agreed. “It’s 50/50 whether she survives,” he said. “If she does, she might always be weak and prone to illness.”

But Lottie (Dod) thrived. Of the six cats we have had over 41 years, all with distinct, often endearing, qualities, she turned out to be the most – let’s get the exact word – delightful. Yes, "delightful", that’s it.

She never scratched anyone or struggled at the vets. But, though patient, she wasn’t passive. No cat-goalkeeper has surpassed her brilliance at trapping or pawing back ping-pong balls tossed to her. She also liked to retrieve thrown items, especially those gold-wrapped Quality Street toffees.

Emerging from the cat flap to greet our return home, she then enjoyed the short car ride down the drive. But, more than anything, she loved a walk. I accompanied her to the village watersplash and back – more than a quarter of a mile. Going, she would roam in all directions, requiring my call, but on the return, curiosity satisfied, she walked almost to heel, like a dog.

People say dogs are closer companions and no doubt that’s true. No cat would stay steadfast over a body. But cats are very soothing pets. Lottie developed a set routine: our bed in the morning, a sunny sofa, or windowsill, in the afternoon. Summer evenings saw her in the summerhouse, but around teatime in winter she appeared at the fireplace – a hint to light the fire.

Latterly she had suffered a form of cat dementia – plaintively wowling for no apparent reason. Treatment rectified that but she then scarcely left her basket and went off her food. The vet who performed the final kindness for her last week (many thanks, Penny Copeland) assured us we were doing the right thing in ending her life. Stroked by my wife, she was purring as she passed away.

Lamenting the death of his much-loved cat, Thomas Hardy wrote: “Pet was never mourned as you,/ Purrer of the spotless hue.” Well, one is. And her name was Lottie (Dod).