is the burglar-deterent weapon we invented in our house. All you need hidden in the bedroom is a long stick, a bungee, and our normally adorable little moggy - who hates being picked up.

Once again that oaf has ruined my day...

Our old cat didn't like me much. He once took a chunk off the tip of my nose with one well-aimed swipe. There was some commotion at the vets (possibly a result of remembering what happened on his first visit when he returned home minus his family jewels) but there was something he took an even greater exception to...

...please remember to set up a video camera if you ever need to give yours a bath.

..furry paranoid schizophrenic person.
They spent an eighth of the day skulking around looking for something to kill or picking at food and the other 7/eighths sleeping.

When Patsy Kirton* adopted us**, the only safe way to handle her was by wearing oven gloves - the really long ones that come well past the wrist.

Thankfully, she has mellowed with age ...

* In my world, all cats have surnames
** Yes, it is that way around

cat has taken to hanging around my pond after my goldfish. I caught it with a full on blast from Twang Jr's SuperSoaker this morning. Most satisfying.

but she's a killer. She thinks it's hilarious to ambush me, usually when I'm bare legged so she can stick all four sets of claws in my leg and slide down it.

If cats were the size of dogs they'd be banned.

This thread only confirms my view that I'm quite right not to have pets!

'Dogs have owners. Cats have staff.'

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Wet Cats.

I lived in my final year in a ground floor flat with 3 others. Two of us had bedrooms at the back of the house that shared a yard area with a woman who lived with her cat called...wait for it...Tigger. See what she did there?

Being students we were obviously night owls who liked to imbibe but - hand on heart - we were fairly quiet, mainly because there were 4 girls who lived in the flat above who had had so many run-ins with the landlord and other tenants that we were lightweights in comparison. In fact it was one of my house-mates who uncovered the truth and told us that in fact the girls were a quartet of Holly Golightlys, one of them having propositioned him down the local boozer not realising he lived in the flat below.

Without fail the woman who lived next door would rise at some ungodly hour to bang the cat's food dish on the metal down-pipe outside her back door (opposite my bedroom window) and call in a pathetically high pitched helium-fuelled voice stuck on repeat, "Tigger...brekkies...Tigger...brekkies...Tigger...brekkies" and so on for anything up to 5 minutes. After 2 weeks of this my flat-mate flipped and from his bed let rip a stream of expletives and threats to kill Tigger. We knew she must have heard us because the next morning there were no calls for Tigger nor the day after.

At the bottom of the garden at the back of the flat was a railway line on an embankment. My bedroom had a flat roof and, it being one of those Indian summers we would climb onto the roof to catch the rays and our elevated position put us level with the railway line. A couple of days after the cursing of Tigger we saw the cat walking along the railway track a few yards to our left. A train was coming, and daft as a brush, the cat decided to move out of the way too late and as she jumped to clear the line she was clipped and knocked into the brush at the end of our garden. It was a surreal moment as we waited to see if Tigger would emerge. She never did. I volunteered to have a look and, sure enough, Tigger lay dead. The problem was Tigger didn't really look like she'd been hit by a train. She was dead in our garden and a couple of days earlier Tigger's life had been threatened by my flat-mate. So despite being innocent of any crime we all felt guilty. What to do?

Like cowards we did nothing. A couple of days later there was a knock on our door. It was the lady from next door, understandably distraught about Tigger and had we seen her? She explained to us that Tigger was old and a bit deaf and could only hear her call if she squealed in a high pitch voice. Despite her concern she apologised to us for disturbing our peace by calling out so loudly. Now we just felt even more guilty but cowards still we said nothing until my flat-mate - the one who had made all the threats - said to her that she should just start calling for Tigger again in the morning and that it would be OK. We exchanged incredulous looks as he told her this, neither of us understanding where this advice was coming from given what we knew.

Sure enough the next morning she was back outside squeeking away ""Tigger...brekkies...Tigger...brekkies...Tigger...brekkies". As I lay there wracked with guilt I was completely flummoxed when she broke off her calling to cry out happily,

"Hellooooo darling, where have you been?"

I sprang up and looked through my curtains and sure enough there was Tigger, looking a bit worse for wear but up and about. As I watched Tigger get fussed over I swear to you that she looked up at my window as if knowing I was looking at her in disbelief.

As the OP says, they are "not of this world".

the bony, lary, stary, moody bastards. Every last one of them.

equipped with the very latest death-dealing weapons systems. The pilot has been trained for years such that, in combination with his machine, he forms a ruthless, remorseless killing machine.

Then cover the whole thing in a cutesy fwuffy coat

My grandfather had a bakery on the Old Kent Road. It was then law for all bakeries to have a resident cat for reasons of pest control. Grandad's was a semi-feral lump of mailign, fur-clad muscle called Dumpty which existed on a diet of mice and would leave all those it hadn't eaten overnight in a neat line on the bakery's back step every morning. It was doing what domestic cats were bred to do. And did it very, very well. The cat would be rewarded with a custard tart. And not a stroke behind the ears. Unless you had a finger or two you no longer needed.

on the other hand.......

but fair enough.

So few recipes

I have had several cats in my time, and I've loved them all dearly.

Poppy was a shameless tart for attention, running up to any house guests with an expression that said "Look how cute I am! I bet you want to stroke me!" She also once chased a toad into the FPO's handbag.

Alfie is a total wuss, giving people a wide berth until he can be sure they're friendly, after which he loves nothing more than to have his tummy vigorously rubbed while he lolls around purring wildly.

And Tabitha is proudly independent, but still needs her daily cuddle. I once got a phone call from a house across the road (my number is on her collar) saying she'd wandered in and was sat quite contentedly on their sofa.

None have even bitten, scratched or otherwise attacked me. All have brought an immense amount of joy and companionship to me and my loved ones.

Steerpike, you're clearly just doing it wrong.

..(or animals for that matter) until I moved in with a then girlfriend.
She floated the idea that she was going to get a cat, and then managed to get two. The brothers Rory and Louis.

I objected.

She cheerfully pointed out that it was her house, she paid the mortgage and I had little say in the matter.

I gracefully acquiesced.

I ended up getting massively attached to them both, and was quite devastated when little Louis got clipped and killed by a car in our street.

Fast forward six years and a few more failed relationships later, and my landlord to be informs me that the property I’m about to move into has a resident cat that he will be only to happy to pass on to a cat shelter before I get the keys.

I objected.

Me and Tino (aged 14 and named after Tino Asprilla, Columbian former Newcastle Utd player apparently) are now the best of friends, and he now spends his autumn years kipping on my bed, on my lap, and generally ensuring that the household routine revolves around him.

And I don’t object one bit!

Couldn't do without our two mogs.

Our first cat was a stray that wandered in while we were watching TV one Summer afternoon, he was riddled with ear mites but a few trips to the Vet put him right. He was with us a year before he was run over and killed.

We debated if it was worth getting another one but the next weekend we drove off to a Cat rescue and had a look. My wife wanted to bring them all home but we chose two six-month old Tabbies and they have been we us for eight years. Willow the fatty is on Antibiotics and Steroids at the moment but we will get her better.

Great to see so many Cat lovers on here.

You may have guessed from my Word nom-de-plume: this is the real Toffee the Cat, a cat amongst cats. She was a rescue cat and at only two weeks old, wasn't expected to survive but she did and we grew up and old together through many house moves and heartbreaks and joy. I used to love the smell of her when she jumped up after coming in on a cold winter's night. Toffee died at 21 just before Christmas and I can't think it about it too much yet, Here you are