Cats. They’re Cat.

I was walking through our utility room when one of the cats that come and go round our house ran over my foot.

I considered for an instance if it had been a squirrel or worse again a mouse or a rat what I would have done? Why do we have these varmints in a state of semi domestication in our homes. It is absurb when you think about it.

I read some woman in the Irish News today who in her spare time catches feral cats and checks them for Cat AIDS and Leukaemia. The question rising in my throat was why? Imagine having so little to do that you can spend your time chasing cats.

Who was it that decided to tame the common cat? We have one called Dylan named after its predecessor also named Dylan after Bob but pronounced Deelon. It’s a long story but the cat responded to being called in that way one time I had too much wine.

The other cat is called Mugsy after the Tyrone footballer. He is a neutered Tom. The cat not the footballer that is. He only comes into the living room at night, is rarely to be seen during the day and occasionally urinates in the old downstairs toilet which is now a cloakroom/storage room.

I’ll makes the decisions about room use Cat if you don’t mind. He will lick your foot if you have no shoes on – any cat that licks my foot deserves treatment. He’s also a bit quick to put the dukes up.

Anyhow, I know some people like Cats. I don’t. Mugsy likes me but only when he is in the living room. Elsewhere in the house he runs away or swings his claws. He’d bite you too if he had the chance.

Cats. They’re cat.

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