A conversation with my cats

Obviously I don't speak cat, but I've had them so long I can just about tell everything they're thinking.

    First off was the big one. She's called sassy (AKA the Anti-Cat). She doesn't like me very much, and I can honestly say that I feel the same way. From the night my daughter brought her home, dumped the feline monster on my lap, and laughed as she almost tore off that which I hold most dear, we've never really got on together.

    "Why do you keep trying to tear off Harley's face?"
    She bristled, or that might just have been the fleas jumping about.

    "Can I just remind you that I'm seventeen years old. And he just comes into my house uninvited, eats my food, sits in my chair and, and just generally annoys me. And," she stuttered, as always furious at even the mention of his name, "he gets the run of the house while you leave me in the kitchen when you all go out."

    That's not actually all of what she said. There were a lot of expletives that I cut out.
    "It's actually my house, "I remind her. "I pay the bills, and that's not yours or her seat. It's mine and you both leave it covered in hair. You also boost his food when he's not looking. And he gets the house because he doesn't leave messes in front of the cat litter, to the left and the right but not actually in it? What do you actually eat on the rare occasion you go out? You do know that cats are supposed to kill things for fun but not eat them when they've already been dead for a fortnight." She shrugged, clearly not interested. "Well, if it happens again, you'll be leaving this house forever, by way of the recycling bin." She wandered off, pausing only to hiss at Harley who'd just come home - without a rat for a change.


    "Oh, Harls." Sassy's nemesis paused, looked at me quizzically and sat down to clean some of his most intimate areas in a position that would probably have dislocated my neck had I tried it.
    "Durrr."
    I should tell you that although a beautiful cat, Harly is probably stupidest living thing on this planet with an IQ slightly less than that of an egg sandwich. This has always been a bit of a problem for him, because as a Bengal he likes to sit in very high places. So every time there's an almighty thud outside followed by a muffled howl, it's usually him falling off the roof or getting stuck inside one of the awnings again. Even when he comes over for a stroke he usually slips off the arm of the sofa in a tangle of fluff and feline obscenity as he thrashes about in the litter bin.

    "What have you been upto today? Meet any girl cats?" Not that it would make any difference if he had. We had him fixed; a heinous act for which he's never really forgiven us.

    "Uuuum." His furry face crumpled a little as he used every singe neuron in his brain to remember; even freezing mid-lick because he can't do two things at once - like breathe and walk.
"Er, I found a furry thing to eat because what-er-name ate my breakfast."

    "No that was last week," I reminded him. He shrugged, the movement cascading to his legs forcing him to fall onto his backside with a strangled squawk.
    "Well, try not to get into anymore fights with sassy. You know it just upsets my wife.' He looked at me with benign curiosity before realising that the table leg he'd begun to lick was not part of his own anatomy. "And another thing." But it was too late; he'd fallen asleep sitting upright again, as usual snoring with the congested death rattle of an emphysemic rhino. He's done that before and it always ends in tears. Especially when his head hit the floor or he falls from the top of the staircase with all the elegance of a drunken elephant.