Rage Against the Mewchine

Ventilation of spleen.

I'm generally happy to let live when it comes to cats. Sam likes to coo at them, and I have little beef with them - except when I amble out into the back yard following the wet weather and count no less than twenty-nine little heaps in a space little bigger than a small garage.

Within seconds, I've exceeded my yearly quota of expletives and I'm suddenly overcome by loathing for the little... fuckers! A couple of months ago, the council put a card through our door about 'dog fouling' - did we know whose canine was responsible etc.

I'm not sure there's much they can do about our feline friends.

When you present this image of cats to cat owners, they tend to shrug their shoulders and smile in a smug sort of fashion. "You should just get a cat," they say, in a tone of voice that would accommodate "a job," "some qualifications", or "a life" with equal condescension.

It's a curious twist on a world of haves and have-nots - like a cuter, paw-printed version backyard Thatcherism. Grrr.