My brain seems to be in hibernation, so I’m going to be doing some Show and Tell.

This is my cat collection. It would seem like a whole bunch of stuffed animals would not have been among the items I stuffed into my two large suitcases and a couple of spare boxes as I prepared to move to a different country, but that’s precisely what I did.

It started when I was 12. Shortly before my birthday I came across a stuffed leopard in a store (in the picture he is the tallest one in the back). I wanted it, and I pointed it out. I did not get it that day. But I was awoken on my birthday by my younger brother dropping a squishy wrapped present on my head. It wasn’t even in a box, just wrapping paper in a stuffed-animal shape. It was, of course, the leopard I wanted so badly.

I named him King Leopie (pronounced “LEP-ee”), and he was not quickly forgotten like most toys children get on their birthdays. I slept with him tucked under my arm every night from that day forward for many years.

Over the years I collected more cats, among them a white leopard I named Queen Amarylla (to the left of King Leopie in the photo). By that point poor King Leopie was looking pretty roughed up, so I switched to sleeping with her. Later I added a white tiger, whom I named Raja (to the right of King Leopie). Now I had realized that Queen Amarylla was looking dingy too, and I didn’t want to do that to poor Raja, so he’s only been squashed at night a couple of times. Many of the cats have stories: the cat with wings is from DCon; the orange tiger used to be my brother’s (but he gave it to me, because I liked cats far more than he did). Many of them I have long since forgotten how they came to be in my possession. Whenever I see a cat in a store I have to decide if it’s special enough to add to my collection. I’ve learned to be more discerning.

I no longer sleep with a stuffed animal clutched tight to me, though it was very hard to break myself of the habit. It still feels like I need something in the crook of my arm – there seems to be a space there just begging for something soft and comforting.

King Leopie will always be the most important of the group, though no one would probably guess from looking at him. Or maybe they would – he has that worn look of something well-loved. Such a small gift, an odd gift for a 12 year old… and yet here I am, 13 years later. He’s been with me for over half my life.

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Next week I’ll tell you the story of the sheep. Promise.