Elizabeth Gold laments the hoops her cat had to jump through to make it safely to Britain

Anumber of you have expressed interest in the fate of Frank, the globe-trotting cat. Thank you for asking. After a lifetime spent in New York, he is now ensconced in our flat in Edinburgh, a residence he is redecorating with hairballs.

They say the British do not like foreigners. If the effort it took to get Frank over to these shores is any indication, I would say they are right. Frank was microchipped, blood-tested, rabies-vaccinated, blood-tested again, paper-worked, paper-worked, paper-worked, locked in a carrying case, taxied to JFK, put on a plane to London (there are no animal imports flown into Edinburgh), then inspected again before he was allowed out. I won't even tell you how much this cost. It would embarrass me.

To make matters more complicated, our car had just been stolen (long story) and we had to borrow one in order to drive down to London in one day (450 miles), crash at a friend's, pick up Frank the next day and drive back. All this for a cat I'm not even sure likes us. (Though can any of us really tell?) We woke up around 5am on the special day and drove to the wing of Heathrow dedicated to the processing of animal foreigners, not far from the Fish Border Inspection Site. We, along with a few other human companions of Fluffy and Tough Guy, proceeded to sit for the next four or five hours in a glassed-in waiting room, flipping through old copies of Hello! and the Heathrow Weekly Gazette, sustaining ourselves with cups of coffee from the vending machine. When I got bored with that, I would go to the wall and read the article from The Guardian that had been pinned up there. It had been written by a US immigration lawyer who had sent his cat to the UK when he and his wife came here on a fellowship. The way he sees it, it is easier to get an immigrant to the US, even post-2001, than a cat over to the UK, well, ever.

Every once in a while a door would open and an airline official would emerge. "Virgin flight from New York?" she'd say. "Frank? Yes, he's landed, he's just stretching his legs, he's absolutely fine." Then she would disappear back into the room where Frank was stretching his legs, and we would wait for a few more hours.

Then, finally, the animals began coming out. There was Fluffy! At the sight of her owner, she flung herself joyously at the bars. Tough Guy! Miao, miao! Dick Cheney! What glorious reunions! What barking and mewling! What human cries of, he's gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous! And then came Frank. He took one look at us and turned his face to the wall.

We drove back, Frank silently glowering. Though he cheered up a bit around mile 300 when we stopped to buy him some sardines.

By the time we got home, he had begun to see that he had gotten himself a pretty good deal.

It's true he was no longer a resident of one of the most famous cities in the world. His access to fresh meat (as in rodents) and live entertainment (as in cockroaches) was now limited. But, on the other hand, he now lived in an apartment with a bed he could hide under, a window he could see out of, gloriously large closets he could kick around in, and a Scot - my husband - determined to spoil him rotten.

Once upon a time, Iain thought that Frank didn't like him. And it was true that if there were people in the room that Frank could drool on or be petted by, he always went to them first. He did seem to act as if Iain were a bad smell. Tolerated, if he could be escaped from. But this is before the wooing of Frank. Iain is a man who loves a project. Frank has become his project. He has plied that cat with so many sardines, mackerel fillets, bits of chicken, licks of ice-cream and caresses that Frank, formerly hostile, then indifferent, has become his love slave.

Yes, after years of being my cat, my entry ticket into the land of catladyhood, Frank has shifted his allegiances. It is Iain's side of the bed he sleeps on. Frank still drools on me - if he didn't do that, I would begin to worry - but Frank has made the Morpheus Switch and we all know what that means.

The other night I roasted a chicken and Iain, being the man of the house and everything, whipped out the carving knife and made crazy with the carcass. Then he piled the choicest tidbits on to a plate, and before either of us had even sat down, Frank was chowing down on his early bird special. Now, of course, he seems to expect chicken at every meal.

Later that night, we were watching a DVD (yes, this is how all great adventures end, with the lovers collapsed on a couch, watching a movie) and I saw that Frank was perched on the arm of the sofa, his head tilted, his great eyes fixed on Iain with could this be love? It looked more like adoration. Later that same night, I caught Iain gazing on Frank with the same look.

"Lovely profile he's got," said Iain.

I wonder how much it would cost to send Frank back to New York?

Elizabeth Gold is a New York City writer who recently moved to Edinburgh. She reviews books for the San Francisco Chronicle.