Queen and Jerry

It's been pretty dull round here the last few weeks. It has rained almost the entire month, which frustrates a healthy young tom no end. I resorted to dashing outside to answer calls of nature, but it was far too wet to do anything interesting like patrol the neighbourhood looking for fit young ladies with whom to amuse myself. For the rest of the time, there was little to do except sleep, eat (making sure I got the choicest morsels and leaving only the scraps for the House Bitch of Doom) and pester She Who Controls the Can Opener.

I've decided to become a lap cat and have taken to sitting on Her at all hours, to relieve my boredom. I sit on Her knees while She is trying to write, or on Her chest when She is reading in bed. I like to distract Her when She is trying to concentrate on Eastenders.

But wait! Something finally happened here tonight. The House Bitch of Doom brought a guest into our fine mansion.

The only problem was that it was a mouse. More accurately, an ex-mouse. Expired and fallen out of its nest.

I heard a loud shriek and popped my head around the corner to discover Her in a lather. And the House Bitch gnawing at a rather skinny corpse of a rodent. The Boss arrived quickly and, donning a giant leather gauntlet fit for a falcon, picked up the deceased mouse and removed it. Rumour has it the unwanted guest was tossed into the flowerbed of the Moaning Meldrew next door.

The House Bitch of Doom is in the doghouse (hee hee). She must be desperate if she's supplementing her diet with vermin. Some people round here have no class. Me, I just rolled over and dozed off again... to dream of Whiskas premium chunks.

Cat-astrophe

She Who Controls the Can Opener has installed Herself in front of the television and is forcing me to watch the Eurovision Song Contest. I'm a pedigree, for goodness sake. I shouldn't have to put up with such chavvy, low-life trash. At least the Irish commentator is amusing, but really I'd rather watch something more classy.

I do enjoy a good film. I like that Bond one with Blofeld's Persian cat - she is fit. I'd date her. She has breeding. I'm thinking of auditioning for the next Bond film myself and why not. I live in the same town as Daniel Craig was born, I am a Shorthair, just like Lewis Carroll's Cheshire Cat (right county, too!), and I can act.

Just watch my dramatic performances first thing in the morning - I can convince even the meanest Scrooge that I haven't eaten for a whole month, even though I was probably snacking just an hour before She got out of Her bed. I can turn on the emotions when required. And, of course, I'm handsome and therefore leading man material. In fact, I'm expecting that Broccoli person to turn up on my doorstep any day now, waving a contract worth millions and offering me a rider clause that will provide a stunt cat and a year's supply of Whiskas Premium and smoked salmon.

Once I'm an A-list film star, I shall pay some minion to write my blog for all my adoring fans to read.