Keogh the cat : holidays are a cat-astrophe

Distant rumblings by the humans who share my house of another holiday in a faraway place.

This concerned me so much, I miaowed.

What will they do with me and Kightly, that's the question.

They're running out of options really.

They've tried a cat-sitter: a strange chap who came into the house, rolled on the carpet and made like a moggie.

I joined in the roleplay and bit him repeatedly, as I would any strange cat who walked into my house and started using the furniture.

After three days with us, he got a less stressful job. Lion tamer, I think.

The cattery they bunged me in was awful. Staff thought I was trying to tunnel out. I wasn't. I was going to the toilet.

Even worse, though, was the weekend break where they simply left us to our own devices and let the kid next door come round and feed us.

For two days, we were forced to eat outside. Took me three hours to get through a bowl of milk, which is a new lap record. That's because it was raining.

If they cared, they'd take both of us with them.

They've waffled on about it being against the law, and we'd have to spend months in quarantine, which I think is a small island near where they are going, Antigua.

Suits me. I need some sunshine. It's been so cold the Old Tom makes a distinct jangling sound every time he comes into our garden.

Why travel firms haven't brought out holidays for cats is beyond me.

Somewhere like the Canary Islands ...