Keogh the cat : my poor paws are frozen

White cats are hard to spot in the snow, leading to unfortunate accidents

My paws are bloody frozen...

This morning one of the humans - the male named Mike - sprinkled the drive with cat litter. Someone told him it worked just as well as grit.

Some of it probably does, but not the stuff we use - wood shavings.

Mind you, it has made a difference. Until today, ice had turned the drive into a skidpan. Now visitors are sliding on tree mulch.

Weather has been so bad, us cats had to cancel our Thursday night gathering by the garden shed. Instead, I spent the entire night in the airing cupboard.

I was rudely woken at 2am by Kightly who wanted to clamber inside, too.

I told the pampered puss straight: "This towel ain't big enough for the both of us."

The humans blame all this white stuff on a cold front. They want to try going to the toilet outside: it's the back end that gets the worst of it.

I feel sorry for the pure white cat on the corner. Twice I went outside to answer the call of nature, twice I almost sat on him.

"That's the worst thing," I told the shocked moggie in an attempt to break the ice, "snow balls!"

"Wouldn't know," he muttered. "I've had the operation."

In all my nine lives, I've never seen so much snow.

Kightly, not yet a year old, has never seen the stuff before. She thought the birds had eaten something they shouldn't have.

She was excited at first, jumping into the stuff, then realised it's hard to look graceful with four pounds of snow stuck to your fur.

The demented cat spent ten minutes trying to suck-up to a snowman in the front garden by rubbing against him.

"Bet he didn't give you any food," I teased her.

"Worse than that," hissed Kightly, "I'm pretty sure the swine wet on me."