The Mitten Kitten
We've had many a cat pass through our house, all have been loved but unfortunately not all of them have had much luck when it comes to cars, neighbours or feline leukemia. Our first cat, Ottilie the all black Siamese, was with us since before I was born and sadly passed away when I was 11 leaving us all heartbroken.

She was a funny bugger though, with a couple of odd habits. She loved chasing my dad's climbing mittens, big grey wooly things that smelt a bit ripe. Throw them down the stairs and she'd belt after them, bringing them back like a feline retriever. The best bit was that she chewed them like a giant wool mouse. Not only was the evidence presented via the medium of holes in the mitts or us watching her eat them.

You could make out grey threads in her shite, occasionally holding them together in a macabre jobbie necklace. Which brings me on to Christmas. Not only did she love eating mittens, she also had a penchant for tinsel, which resulted in very festive turds and brought me and my sister immense joy, looking for christmas poos (waaaay before that charlatan Mr Hankey).

But my favourite incident happened when I was 9. Pa was tickling me on the floor in the lounge, accompanied by slightly-less-than-masculine shreiking and giggling. All of a sudden there's a flash of black and shouting and swearing from my dad. Ninja cat had thought I was being attacked, pelted into the room and leapt onto my dad's leg with teeth and all four sets of claws going in for the kill. It was the first and last time any of my pets (including my big tube of dog Mongo) leapt to my defence. That taught the bugger for making me wet myself.

Rest in peace you midget mentalist, and thanks
(Manbearpig is wearing a rabbitskin jacket and bunny ears, Thu 14 Jun 2007, 13:50, Reply)