Sunday Mercury - Keogh the Cat

Catsitters are just hell

2009-11-04T13:49:45Z

They've done it again. Gone and left me.

At least this time I don't have to put up with a professional catsitter called Carl, who rolled on the carpet to 'bond' with me.

He took the whole 'cat role' too far, even swallowing a mitten so he could cough up a fur ball.

He did manage to catch fleas, though - courtesy of yours truly. I'm glad I only had him for a week: it was only a matter of time before he started sharing the litter tray.

This time I'm stuck with the girl next door, who is more interested in smooching with her boyfriend on the sofa than pandering to my needs.

Ever tried making yourself heard to someone wearing an ipod. If she didn't want her legs scratched, she should have taken the thing out.

By day two, I'd got it down to a fine art: wait until she and her boyfriend were curled up on the sofa, then I'd curl up on top of them. A prolonged rub of the legs also takes their minds off matters at hand.

The current arrangement is very unsatisfactory - and may even merit a call to the local cat rescue. I have to stay indoors until the girl gets up, comes round, feeds me, then opens the French windows.

I then have to stay outdoors until she comes round and lets me back in.

These are long lonely days outdoors.

Thankfully, the humans return from their trip to Wales tomorrow. Last time they visited the Principality, I was sure the male came back speaking spatterings of Welsh. Turns out he had catarrah.

They promised to bring me something Welsh back, but I hate fudge. And what am I going to do with one of those big wooden spoons?

I'll give them the usual, 'where the hell have you been?' glance and skulk off.

Now they're threatening to take a long break in the West Indies. "And you'll be going on holiday, too," cooed the woman. "We'll book you into a cattery."

Not on your nelly! I'd rather roll around with Carl.

Keogh the Cat: My Christmas Single!

2009-10-22T12:55:50Z

When it comes to helping others, I've got something in the pipeline. It's a dead rat. I wedged it in there yesterday.

I've got something else as well. A Christmas charity single, with money raised used to buy catnip for the growing army of strays. Because of the credit crunch, more and more pet owners are showing cats the door. We usually think: "Very interesting - now could you open it, I'm dying for the toilet."

If every resident in the three villages that comprise our rural parish donated only 10p there would be enough catnip to get all us moggies off our faces for a week. If that isn't a good cause, I don't know what is.

It's like Band Aid, but without Bananarama, which makes it better, in my book. Infact, I've called my song, 'Do They Know It's Christmas? Don't Be Stupid - they're cats'.

But it sounds nothing like the original, although the bit where Bananarama sang does unwittingly resemble our cat chorus. The words are moving, too: 'It's Christmas time, there's no need to be afraid.

'It's Christmas time, I'm going to keep on jumping until I knock the tinsel off that lamp,errr, shade.'

And so forth...

The video's very moving. My mate Ginger is pictured squatting by a rose bush, then a human's boot strikes him. Thirteen 'takes' it took before I was satisfied with that scene.

Poor Ginger still won't come down from the tree he ran up.

The underlying message is very real and pertinent: a cat isn't a Christmas present. Who wants a Christmas present that doesn't do what you want, has lots of sharp bits and 'switches off' 18 hours a day.

If you want something you can play with, get a dog.

Us cats have spent nights rehearsing and, if nothing else, we've proved if a bunch of wailing cats rehearse long enough they still sound like wailing cats, but they can learn to start and stop wailing at the same time.

Public response has been luke-warm, unlike the water in the bucket the lady at Nunber 13 threw over us.

Media reaction has been even worse. I pleaded with the DJ at Radio Rural for airtime. All he could say was: "Who let that cat in the studio?"

Simon Cowell was equally dismissive. "You can't sing, you look dreadful," he scoffed, "I think you'll definitely make it to boot camp. If those twins can do it..."

Cats wash more than students - you heard it here first

2009-10-22T12:52:54Z

Living with humans, has shown me we have a lot in common.

We both like raw fish...well, the Japanese humans do, anyway. We both wash a lot...well, apart from the fat bloke at Number 17. We both hiss...admittedly, humans only do it when two little people called The Twins are on X Factor.

And we both 'spray' strategic points on our territory, although the male in my house protests he didn't mean to rust the toilet radiator.

But we differ in many ways, too.

Dogs are humans' best friend: they're cats worst enemy.

We sleep 18 hours a day: humans make do with a maximum of eight, unless they're students. Students sleep marginally more than cats. Cats wash a lot more, too.

They pay for sushi: we just nick it from next door's pond.

They take off their coat. We have to drop bits of ours all over the house.

But one of the biggest differences is running - or 'jogging', as some humans call it. Cats run when it's really necessary. We run when someone shouts dinner or a dog's chasing us or we're hunting something. We usually run up a tree, too.

Many humans run for no apparent reason at all: sometimes they'll gather in big groups and run for 26 miles. They call it a marathon.

This baffles me. No animal chases a sparrow for 26 miles - not even an imjured sparrow.

Maybe they're being hunted: what do they expect if they dress-up as giant chickens for the London Marathon? Mind you, that must've been one hell of a fox giving chase.

Watching them on TV, I'm pretty sure they've been called for dinner.

This proves something. Humans' sense of smell may be rubbish, but, boy, have they got good hearing!

Keogh the cat : Halloween hell and bonfire night misery

2009-10-08T14:06:32Z

Bad few weeks for cats.

First, there's Halloween, with all those little people in scary masks knocking on doors.

They ask for a treat and get sweets. When I ask for a treat, I get catnip.

I think they should give the trick or treaters catnip.That would stiffen the brushes on their broom.

Never understood why witches fly on brooms. I suppose Hoovers are too heavy.

The whole 'witches and warlocks' thing is so un-PC - and, again, an example of the catism that we moggies have to put up with on a daily basis.

Would a witch have a black dog as a familiar? I doubt it very much.

A black cat running across your path is unlucky, apparently.

Jolson, the black cat in our neighbourhood, ran across the path of a tractor and got mown down, so it wasn't exactly a lottery windfall for her either.

Every Halloween, the kids used to dress her up as a cross between a werewolf and vampire.

It didn't work. They just ended up with a fur coat that fangs round your neck.

The next black day on the calendar is bonfire night.

If Guy Fawkes had realised the misery he was going to cause for us cats, he would never have gone through with the gunpowder plot.

It didn't work, anyway. He ended up hung, drawn and quartered, which seems the wrong way round to me. You usually draw something then hang it.

Every November 5 is sheer hell, with all the bangs, whistles and fires. There are constant reminders from the RSPCA to keep pets indoors, but that's no good to me and Kightly.

The humans at our house are into indoor fireworks.

Something gets into humans on bonfire night. Last year the village bobby came across two kids, one swigging battery acid, the other eating a firework.

Apparently, he charged one, but let the other off.

A winter's tail

2009-10-06T11:42:53Z

While kitten Kightly plays with the fallen leaves, I feel a decided chill down the spine.

Winter is coming. I know this because my fur is starting to grow.

There are four seasons: spring when it just rains, summer when it rains with occasional bright spells, autumn when it's windy and rains and, the worst of all, winter when it rains with very occasional white stuff called snow.

Apparently, we're in the grip of global warming. Can you imagine how cold it must of been during global cooling?

It's all new and exciting to the kitten, but I dread what's round the corner, if you get my drift. I hate snow.

You can't find a toilet, you can't see the vicious white cat round the corner and you get icicles on your whiskers.

What's more, there are no mice around to catch.

Kightly will find it fun for five minutes, but the novelty wears off when your paws start to freeze.

When it snows heavily, the humans behave very strangely. Because there is nowhere for us cats to go to the toilet, they turn driveways into giant litter-trays, covering them with sand..but do they go mad when we use them! The cruel ones cover them with salt, which makes your eyes water.

Then they make big effigies out of snow, with pieces of coal for eyes and carrots for noses. These are snowmen. They don't make snowcats because cats don't like to smell carrots - and I dread to think what they would use for a tail.

As I was walking through the white stuff with 'Ginger', my favourite tom, some kid shouted: "Snow balls!"

What did the lad expect? Half the poor moggie's body had been submerged in the stuff for 20 minutes.

Autumn depresses me, too. Everything except the birds fall off trees and there are dead things all over the place. The only good thing is the leaves turn brown to match the grass. Soon the ugly patches of dead grass will be hidden by ugly patches of dead leaves.

Last autumn us cats had a competition to see what the first thing to fall on the driveway would be.

Ginger reckoned a dead leaf, but he was wrong.

It was a Christmas catalogue.

What kind of cat will keep your grass short? A Lawn Meower.

Do cats dream in colour?

2009-10-03T20:39:17Z

I'm constantly asked: do cats dream in colour?

Most certainly - unless we're dreaming about black and white cats.

Some folk ask: do cats dream?

Of course. Wouldn't be much point in having a colour brain if you couldn't get something decent to watch on it. You know when a sleeping cat twitches? He's either dreaming or got a bad case of fleas. Or maybe he's dreaming about having a bad case of fleas.

There are some cats who believe what you dream is real and the other stuff isn't, which makes sense: we sleep for 18 hours a day, afterall.

I don't believe it, though. If the other stuff is a figment of my imagination, why would I make up vets, fur balls, bloody big dogs and share a terraced house with humans. I'd probably miss out worms and fleas, too.

I have some terrible dreams, me. Last night I dreamt I was arrested for walking in some other cat's sleep. "Did you sleep well?" asked my mate Ginger when I finally stirred. "Not really," I told him, "I made a few mistakes."

In one nightmare, I was trying to swallow a two foot white mouse. When I woke, the pillow was missing.

There's a book that tells the meaning of cats' dreams. Every single one means 'we're hungry'.

When it comes to bedtime, humans have got it easy: a quick clean of their teeth and they're ready to drop off. They just take their fur off - we have to wash ours from ears to tail.

I've had some very restless nights of late crammed with dreams of hunting a lone mouse for miles. I woke up yesterday to see Kightly, the other cat in this house, staring at me. "You've been stalking in your sleep again," she said.

You want obedience? Buy a dog....

2009-09-22T07:33:40Z

Each night, the humans step outside and frantically call my name.

I hear them, but don't budge. That's because I'm a cat. If they wanted a pet that obeys commands, they should have bought a dog.

Egyptians used to worship us. Heaven knows how they got a cat to sit through an entire church service.

I usually wait until the male with the big belly curses and slams the patio door, clock the bedroom light going on, then scratch frantically to be let in.

This is almost as much fun as rubbing your legs against someone who's allergic to you.

It may sound a bit kittenish, but boredom is a real killer for cats. And for middle-aged moggies like me, there's very little to do.

Last time my owners flung a tennis ball in my direction, I just looked, thought 'I don't remember coughing-up that strange fur-ball' and skulked outside.

When you're young, little things like a tie or even your own reflection in the mirror can keep you fascinated for hours.

Half-way through your nine lives it gets a bit boring. Even the fluffy toy mice lose their appeal. For a while I thought they were real, but, then, for a while I thought I'd actually catch my own tail.

I find myself asking: "Is this it? Eighteen hours sleep a day, the occasional brush with rodents and an endless cycle of washing?"

There are those who like nothing better than curling up on the sofa with an episode of EastEnders. Our forefathers didn't hunt game in Africa so we could be stupified by soaps - that's the way I look at it.

My mate, a really hard individual called Mittens, reckons the best way to beat boredom is to hunt really dangerous prey. Something a bit bigger than the usual fodder of mice and sparrows.

I took his advice. "So why so down in the mouth?" he asked.

Because this week I've mostly been dining on duck.

Why name me after a Wolves player humans?

2009-09-15T08:07:55Z

The RSPCA are pretty quick when it comes to clamping down on cruelty to us moggies - and quite rightly so.

But they've not lifted a finger to stop humans giving us stupid names.

Swanning around with a title like Princess Primrose of the Morning Sun III - as the Persian show-cat up the road has to - can leave a feline mentally scarred.

What's more, by the time her owners have finished calling her in for dinner, the Persian's already got bored and disappeared for a light mouse snack.

Do you think I enjoy being called Keogh. My humans are Wolves fans and they named me after a Wolves players.

Could've been worst - the team's got a strikers called Iwelumo, who they quite like.

I mean, what happens when Andy Keogh retires? My name's going to be soooo out-of-date: like all those humans called Edna and Cyril.

And never mind that I support Villa. Every time they call me, my hair stands on end.
"You think you've got it bad," moaned the next-door neighbour. "I'm Whiskers - and they've even put the bloody name on my collar. It's got me into so many fights by the dustbins."

"Your owners are either stuck in the 1970s or have struck a sponsorship deal," I told him. "That's why the tabby up the road is called Collett's Worming Tablets."

According to a recent poll, the most popular cat name is Oscar, which is a little too American for my liking. I think Bafta sounds better.

Eighteen in the top 20 is 'Puss', which is about as inspired as calling your cat, 'Get Off That Sofa You're Getting Hairs On It'.

I've learnt to be very wary of humans who give their cat a title, too - such as 'Mr Marmaduke' or Miss..." This usually means they want the moggie to be their bestmate.

And who wants a best mate who stays out all night, sleeps most of the day and is regularly sick on your carpet? Someone who's pretty desperate, that's who.

There's a cat in these parts who's got the silliest name ever - Pharoah.

"Why Pharoah?" I asked.

"Because I leave a little pyramid in every room I visit," she winked.

Keogh the cat : one of my humans is missing

2009-08-28T15:22:42Z

I cannot believe the male human is packing for another trip away.

When I left home for three days, they put posters up and searched every night.

They also had me neutered.

The poster was embarrassing. The picture was very old and the words brief:

"Missing - tabby, answers to the name Keogh. If spotted, do not approach. Can be dangerous."

They'd even put 'reward' underneath - then crossed it out.

What about gsoh, likes nights out and fish?

The small ad in the local paper was even more hurtful: "Missing - tabby cat. If not found in five days, cat basket for sale."

The human has gone AWOL on a number of occasions, yet, as far as I'm aware, he's escaped the surgeon's knife (which is a shame, it would've slowed him down a bit) and they've never called his name once.

They put one picture in the paper, which said: "This young man is now 50."

The picture was hilarious. Humans have very funny hair before it moults.

They don't realise that sometimes a cat just has to get away. Endless days sleeping on the sofa can take it out of a moggie,

The sheer boredom is enough to make you chase your own tail.

I've got a little bolt-hole in the country. It's basic, but rural and only a short walk to the nearest rodent. It's a hay bale.

I could spend all day watching the chickens feeding on the stubble. That's what I call real hentertainment.

I'm surprised they still keep them in the backyard: according to a new EU directive, you've got to keep them in the backmetre.

I get on OK with the farmyard cat, a moth-eaten Tom who survives on a diet of rats.

He used to spend his time dozing on the plant machinery, but now shares the bale with me. I suppose that makes him an ex-tractor fan.

"Who's the big, burly chap with the earring?" I asked.

"That's the boss - the farmer," said the country cat.

"Strange to see a strapping bloke like that with an earring," I pointed out. "How long has he been wearing it?"

"Ever since his wife found it in the glovebox."

Keogh the cat : they've put me on a diet!

2009-08-21T14:48:56Z

They've only gone and put me on a diet, which is a very human thing to do.

What next? Will they shave my fur and squeeze me into a pair of trousers?

It's downright cruel. I've got a good mind to ring Cat Rescue, get them to drop off a hamper and prosecute my owners.

If a diet is forced on you, you're being starved - and a bloke on the front page of yesterday's paper got bird for starving his pet.

Damn! I've said the 'B' word - 'bird'. I've started salivating again.

I've resorted to a sea-food diet. Not so much seafood, actually - more pond-food: next door's koi carp pond.

If humans want to diet, it's up to them. They like to be skinny. Take that Posh Spice.

First time I saw a picture of her, I thought she's either useless at catching things (it can't be too difficult to outrun those frozen chickens - their legs are tied for a start) or she's hibernated for too long.

Turns out she's made herself like that. Why?

Last time I saw legs like that, I was chasing them and they had a message attached.

Funny creatures, people. They're infatuated with weight. Some even make themselves sick after meals. I've tried - the only thing that came out was fur.

The female in our house bought a one-year membership to a local gym, but didn't lose an ounce. Turns out you have to turn up once in a while.

She blathers on about how thin she was when she did ballet. She wouldn't get into a tutu now. She'd need a three-three.

It's different for us cats. Being fat is a sign of power, of virility.

The most attractive moggie I ever saw was wedged in a catflap. I want to be like my mate Ginger and polish the wooden floor with my belly by just walking across it.

But, no! My owners have restricted me to two meals a day and no snacks.

No snacks! How does that work?

There's a field full of them running around only yards away.

They want me to be lean, mean and lightning fast, like a greyhound.

That's a very worrying thought. They may be lean and lightning-fast, but I've never once seen them catch that rabbit on telly.

Keogh the cat : the humans are back off holiday

2009-08-07T13:22:41Z

They're back.

Seven days the humans have been on their 'jollies', whatever 'jollies' are.

They've turned a different colour and their skin is falling off in flakes.

They call it jollies. We cats call it mange.

If they'd gone to a veterinary surgery for a break instead of Crete they'd have been put down.

Read on ...

Because the weedy kitten Kightly wouldn't go to a cattery, which I was quite looking forward to - change of scenery, change of toms serenading me - we had to share our house with a cat-sitter.

Bloody strange bloke. Rolled his own sweet smelling cigarettes, didn't cook meat and watched the Adult Channel.

I think he watched the Adult Channel, anyway: either that or they've introduced some very unusual - and painful - moves into American wrestling.

Anyway, Kightly did her usual 'sucking up' trick, rubbing round the bloke's flares and jumping on his lap. He made the mistake of stretching out his hand and said to me: "Are we going to be friends, Keogh?"

It was a good four days before his fingers had healed sufficiently to roll one of those big cigarettes. On the plus side, when I hissed, did that chap jump.

I'm not the jealous type, but as soon as the Lockleys returned with their luggage they were all over Kightly.

Julie - the wild-eyed, older female human - scooped the kitten in her arms and nuzzled her, cooing: "Have you missed us?"

They kept me at bay with a broom. That was to stop me from ripping the head off the toy camel they'd brought home.

I think it's a downright cheek that the humans can disappear for days without warning. I'm just amazed they found their way home.

We cats have a reputation for travelling many miles to return home, but even I'd struggle after being dumped on a Mediterranean island.

When they went missing, it was a cause for celebration.

When I went missing, they stuck posters up around the village. 'Missing cat,' they read. 'Gingerish' - which I'm not. 'Answers to calls of Kightly'.

Nothing about 'good sense of humour', 'loves going out at night', 'hates smokers'. There wasn't even a reward.

No wonder I didn't return for four days.

Humans need to lick themselves clean

2009-07-22T12:06:48Z

The good folk at the Sunday Mercury are very pleased with the number of 'hits' I've been getting...whatever that means.

I'm not surpised at gaining computer stardom. Have you seen me with a mouse?

To all those who have logged-on and become Keogh fans, a big thank you.

And to those who googled 'pussy' and got me by mistake, I can only apologise.

Maybe your cat has got what it takes to be a hit on the net. Send me your moggie's picture - even better, your moggie's video - and I'll display it for the rest of the world to see.

Complicated creatures, humans.

I'd treat them with a lot less suspicion if they licked themselves clean once in a while. I realise it's biologically impossible for people to do the backside thing, but they could spit on their hands and wash their ears from time to time, surely?

They say the funniest thing, too.

Last night the male human said to the female: "You look the cat's whiskers." Roughly translated, that means: "You look like something I'd use to measure if the patio door is big enough to squeeze through."

No one - except Victoria Beckham, maybe - would take that as a compliment.

"You look like the cat who's found the cream" is another saying I've heard them use. It means 'you look very happy', apparently, which is very odd. Surely it should mean, 'you've got milk on your face' or 'you look like you've stuffed your mouth in a saucer'?

For years when I heard humans use that quaint expression, I thought they were expressing dietary concerns: slang for 'you look uncomfortably bloated, would you like some meat?'.

I suppose we cats should be pleased with all the positive references. Don't ask me why, but football fans call any good goalkeeper 'The Cat'. I've watched them in action on telly and still don't know why. They don't scent-mark their posts: I think I caught Bruce Grobbelaar doing it once, but he doesn't play any more. They don't clean themselves
during a match: a couple tried, but got booked for time-wasting.

They don't fall asleep during games and they don't arch their backs, hiss then run a mile when the ball comes towards them. As a nickname, therefore, it's very flawed.

Nonetheless, in human-speak there's a lot of positives associated with cats. Dogs, on the other hand, are dragged into the conversation when humans have something negative to say: serves 'em right - all that toadying and fetching sticks nonsense and mutts still can't get any positive PR.

"She's dressed like a dog's dinner", "look what the dog dragged in?" - which only works when you're talking about a stick, surely?, "it's a dog's life", "barking mad"....I could go on.

"It's raining cats and dogs" - that's the man-phrase I really don't understand.
"It's a warning about sepping in poodles," said my mate Felix.

So where do cats come into it?
"When it's pussing it down," he added.

Keogh the cat : I've been accused of murder

2009-07-17T13:19:31Z

When the human lodgers used to go on holiday they left the key with an old lady who came round each morning and night and fed me.

This was a mutually beneficial arrangement.

I got two meals a day, she got a companion who wasn't the slightest bit bothered by her facial hair or the fact she'd forget their name every five minutes.

This year the old lady died.

At the inquest, her son tried to link her passing with the fact I bit her leg. I think he was trying it on: probably insured his mom against death by cat bites.

If he's looking for a victim, he should look in my direction - it was my tail the pensioner trod on. If she hadn't been wearing slippers I would've ended up with a rear like a beaver.

Because the old dear has died - and everyone else in the village is too scared to come within hissing distance of me - the human lodgers have been forced to take radical action.

They want to put me in a cattery.

No way! I know how catty a bunch of cats can be in a cattery. Those places are for pussies.

"I ain't going back in the slammer," I miaowed to the humans. It'll bring back all those painful memories of when I was a kitten.

Days spent staring at four bare walls, no furniture, newspapers strewn on the floor. And it was like that until they finished decorating our living room.

The place the humans have selected on the internet looks like a cattery, but has the grand title of a 'cat hotel'.

Know what happens when a cat strolls into the dining area of a hotel? It gets a boot up the backside. Cough a fur-ball up in the foyer and there's hell to pay.

And what do I want with a hotel? I'm not going to ring room service and ask them to send a mouse up

"Could I have a wake-up call?"

"What time, madam?"

"Every five minutes, please."

It's not going to work.

They won't let me stay at home because the neighbour has complained about me using his allotment as a toilet. That chap's got a lot bigger things to worry about.

He should see what a horse has gone and done on his rhubarb.

"Look," said the female human, "Keogh's rubbing against my leg. She's saying: 'Don't go away'."

Got the wrong end of the stick there, lady. I'm saying: "Remember what happened to the old lady? Pack my bags and you're next."

Keogh the cat : takeaway food for pussies

2009-06-26T16:35:37Z

Hi, Keogh the cat fans...

Big news. They're planning to open a trout fishery in my village.

That should send the cost of cat-flaps soaring: the one thing this neighbourhood has been missing is a top-class eatery.

I think it'll attract a lot more diners than the bins at the back of Mr Chan's takeaway. And sometimes you hadn't got a clue what you were eating.

Take those prawn balls, for example. What a con - prawns don't have any.

Mind you, the same goes for most of the Toms on our block.

One of our gang ate so much shell-fish he stopped coughing-up fur balls and started coughing up prawn balls.

The chicken miaow mein's a bit spicy, but the crispy duck is delicious. Unlike you're catching live ones, it doesn't leave you down in the mouth.

OK, the self-service is going to be a little more difficult, but, on the plus-side, it will serve a lot more cats at one sitting.

And the food is going to be much fresher.

I'm all for selecting my own fish dish - humans do it with lobsters at restaurants. They just don't have to flick the thing out of the water and bite it to death.

If people had to catch their own dinner, there wouldn't be the obesity problem there is today.

The Lockleys dined on cow last night. How long do you think it would take to bite one of those to death?

I think they would even struggle with chicken. Small rodents would be a non-starter.

I'm hoping this is just the beginning and a mouse farm will follow.

We've already got an ostrich one, but try catching one of those and you'll never use a scratch-post again. My mate Ginger stalked one for half-an-hour...then it trod on him.

Pheasants are tricky, too. They put up one hell of a fight. No wonder humans end up having to shoot them - then send the dogs in.

I love fish - and so do the humans. They say white wine goes well with it.

Only difference is, I don't cook my fish - sushi, the humans call it.

What goes well with that? White grapes, I suppose.

Keogh the Cat: I've had a tough life!

2009-06-20T14:46:13Z

We had it rough, me, mum and my five brothers and sisters.

Mum was abandoned by her owner five times, but managed to find her way back. Once, the owner took her so far away he got lost.

He had to follow mum to find his way home.

Eventually the humans bundled mum and us kittens in a cardboard box and left us on Cannock Chase. It was there a kindly gent discovered us in the Ikea packaging. "Look what's in here," he shouted, "and they're already assembled."

He handed us to a cat rescue organisation, which 'looks after' cats.

One of the things it does to 'look after' cats is offer to castrate them for free. Cat Rescue must mean 'look after' in the Mafia sense of the word.

For weeks they couldn't find a home for us, which I blame on my sister Fluffy. She had a wonky eye and an in-growing tail. Vets had to x-ray her to find out if she was unhappy.

Then the Lockleys came and decided I was the cat for them. Their son had wanted a dog but they comprimised and bought the lad a goldfish. It didn't work. The fish died during 'walkies'and getting the thing to use a litter tray was a nightmare.

So they decided on a cat. And as soon as they set eyes on me they uttered those four little words that mean so much: "Has it been wormed?"

Now I'm one of the family - one of the family that bites and scratches, but one of the family, nonetheless. I've got my own chair, which used to be Mike's, my own part of the bed, which used to be Mike's, and my own toys.

I've even got the humans house-trained. "I can't get this cat off my chair," Mike used to moan.

"Kick his fluffy balls," advised Julie.

"I can't," moaned Mike, "he's all curled up."

And me and the teenage son have an awful lot in common. We both hate water, stop out all night and spend most of the day asleep.

I like to think I've brought a little something extra into the Lockley household. Fleas and the odd dead rodent.