Mickey...

He used to like following us down to the park- like a dog but without the need of a leash...

The first time he made the trip with us he freaked out at all the Indian Myner birds that were swooping down at him from the trees; and he ran around like a scatter-brain- half climbing the trees and darting in and out of the rushes that surround the dry creek bed. Every now and then he springs out at us; playfully leaping out in attack. It's fairly rare that he leaves a scratch on any of us when he's only playing- even my little Son stayed relatively scratch-free despite deserving to be be ripped to shreds; but he likes to show us what he's capable of all the same.

He's a little hunter; manically stalking. He gets it from me; I reckon he's picked up on part of my personality disorder because of how I raised him- at first like a much-loved child that I then systematically starved for attention; some of the time anyway. Even at home he follows me around relentlessly-he can't leave me alone when he craves my with-held attention- that's why he comes with us when we go to the park; because just to be with me is better than nothing at all.

The Council workers digging up the front lawns of nearby homes must think I am some kind of weird Cat-Lady; whistling to Mickey to keep up instead of trying to explore all the strange smells he senses along the way. My little Son runs down the grassy hill towards the swings and the cat sprints alongside him; a stripy tabby-grey streak. He's Puma-like in many ways. Or one of those cool Egyptian cats; wise all-knowing- but somehow cunning and malevolent at the same time.

Why didn't all of those other crappy cats I've owned over the years die when they were less than one year old? Even John Doe was at least two before he got bitten by a snake and died under the house. Ha. John Doe. My nice neighbours gave him his name before they moved away; they figured he couldn't be known as That Grey Prick for the rest of his life. He was so feral that the only time I ever picked him up was when I found him dead. He was from the last batch of kittens that Scout had; they lived in the tree out the front until I tricked them into a cat carrier with food. All except for Johnny; he was too clever to get trapped alongside his brothers and sisters.

I wouldn't have missed Bitchy or Scout either if one of them had died earlier- Bitchy lived til she was about seven and the mother of about sixty children. Scout was one of her many daughters- so named after the little girl in To Kill A Mockingbird because it's one of my favourite books of all time. I wasn't sad the day she ran away. Over the years Scout gave Bitchy about fifteen grandkittens- John Doe among them-many of whom were the product of her incestuous relationship she had with her half-brother Kitty; and it's sad to say but more than a few of them looked more than a little physically challenged.

I blame myself for their weird distorted appearances; if I'd desexed all of my animals like any responsible owner would have then none of the in-breeding would have occurred. I remember one of them was born dead- thankfully- for it had no front feet and no tail...

Kitty was My Boy; undeformed except that his eyes were perhaps a shade too close together for his face. He, too, was quite obsessive for an animal- and also had his stalker tendencies; though he never accompanied me on a walk like Mickey did. Kitty had his own charms; I would only have to pat my shoulder and he would leap up into my arms; a heavy mass of ginger tom. I think in the end he ran away because he got sick of all the kittens his mother and sister kept having;it was like he got offended when they were eating his food in front of him; his half-siblings, cousins and children all at once.

He came back some two months later; a little leaner and with burrs in his coat- so I knew that he had been living it rough- and because he had a somewhat wilder look to his vertical yellow eyes. He still remembered his little trick, though; and I saw him perhaps twice more over the next few days before he disappeared for good.

After he left I didn't get another pet for four years; this next one I chose because he bit the finger of my Hubby's least favourite nephew when we picked him out from the RSPCA. I liked him immediately. He had a tatto in his ear- which impressed my Hubby when I told him about it- and was quite lean and lanky for a fourteen week old kitten.

I took him home; it was the day before my little Son's third birthday. And then- being the contradiction that I am- I named him after a Mouse.