Keogh the cat : in memoriam of moggies

I don't understand why women love us cats so much.

I don't listen.

I don't come in when I'm called.

I stay out all night and when I do decide to come in, I just want to be left alone and sleep.

Yet Julie rewards me with cuddles and treats.

When Mike does the same, she throws his dinner in the bin.

It seems unfair, but I'm not complaining.

If you want to be a famous cat like me, you've got to think big.

Thousands of years ago, we were worshipped as Gods - make sure your owners don't forget it.

Remember - dogs have owners, cats have staff.

I'm not proud, though: I don't care whose leg I rub against to get a tin of cat food.

Poor old Ginger has bought it - I'm talking about the BIG op.

To stop him staying out all night, his owners had him neutered. It hasn't worked - he still stays out all night.

Turns out he likes to watch.

He's the latest in a long line of pals to have suffered misfortune.

On Monday, Brandy got hit by a 4x4 - the wake taking place at the bins by the bus shelter tomorrow.

The driver picked up the mangled moggie and took her to her house.

"I'm most dreadfully sorry," said the motorist, "can I replace her?"

"Dunno," sniffed Mrs Jervis. "What are you like at catching mice?"

Mind you, Mrs Jervis is stupid.

When Brandy had her first litter, the OAP was so shocked she got the vet round.

"How could it have happened," she near sobbed. "Brandy never leaves the house - she couldn't have possibly met another cat."

"What about that old tom sitting on the sofa?" asked the vet.

"Don't be stupid," snapped Mrs Jervis. "That's her brother."