Keogh the cat: the posh pussy across the road

Seven bloody days I've been waiting for the Lockleys to come back from their holidays.

And when they did return in the early hours, they were all rusty.

That's what you get if you shave your fur off.

Did they invite me? Did they hell as like.

Instead they invested in a cat-sitter: a chap who came in each day, fed me, then rolled on the floor next to me. 'Bonding' he called it.

He even threw a few fluffy toys down, which is insulting. I stopped using mouse substitutes long ago.

If he really wanted to bond, why didn't he follow me up that 12 foot tree at the bottom of our garden?

He called me 'beautiful', but after being bitten for the third time he called me the same thing Mike does. It's not complimentary and it isn't fit to print on a cat collar.

I gave him a 'next time bring a bird in your mouth' look and skulked off.

The cat-sitter, who's called Trevor, was recommended by them-over-the road because he gets on so well with their pampered puss.

He would.

She's Persian - all long hair, big eyes and a longer name than a Welsh railway station: Princess Peach Blossom of the Full Moon The Third, or something.

She doesn't get out much: too busy rolling on the lino with the cat-sitter, probably.

I'm all Wolverhampton - and named after a Wolves striker, which is something I'm taking up with the RSPCA... I support Villa.

I don't know why that cat looks down her nose at me. Her owners plan to pay to have her mate with another Persian, apparently.

I think that's appalling.

This neighbourhood may be rough, but we've never had a vice problem before.