The Diary Of A Killer Cat

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Okay, okay. So hang me. I killed the bird. For pity’s sake, I’m a cat. It’s practically my job to go creeping round the garden after sweet little eensy-weensy birdy-pies that can hardly fly from one hedge to another. So what am I supposed to do when one of the poor feathery little flutterballs just about throws itself into my mouth? I mean, it practically landed on my paws. It could have hurt me.

Okay, okay. So I biffed it. Is that any reason for Ellie to cry in my fur so hard I almost drown, and squeeze me so hard I almost choke?

‘Oh, Tuffy!’ she says, all sniffles and red eyes and piles of wet tissues. ‘Oh, Tuffy. How could you do that?’

How could I do that? I’m a cat. How did I know there was going to be such a giant great fuss, with Ellie’s mother rushing off to fetch sheets of old newspaper, and Ellie’s father filling a bucket with soapy water?

Okay, okay. So maybe I shouldn’t have dragged it in and left it on the carpet. And maybe the stains won’t come out, ever.

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