Isobel, a small black fur person, is squirming and purring in my lap as I type, for the study desk is her favourite place to infest. Watson, her brother, owns the kitchen sofa and anyone with the temerity to sit there, especially in the spot beside the reading lamp.

For a couple of years, we had a Siamese named Tokyo Rose, Rosie to her friends, who operated like a heat-seeking missile from Remembrance Day to Easter. She came to us as an emergency case, having been the undermost cat in a crowded house, and departed just as abruptly when it became apparent that she would succeed in preventing the settlement of Isobel and Watson, then four-month-old kittens. By the time the kittens came into our lives, Rosie had been the only cat in the house from April (when Old Bill died) to late November, and she was determined to keep it that way. She ambushed the kittens whenever they ventured onto the kitchen floor, especially whenever they emerged from the litter box. By February, the kittens were living on top of the refrigerator and Watson had learned to crap in the sink. Something had to give, and it was decided that the least bad solution was to find yet another new home for Rosie.

With great good luck, an old friend of my brother was found to be in need of a cat, and Rosie went to Prince Edward County where she is now the love of an old bachelor's life. He sent us a photo yesterday, of Rosie basking in a sunbeam on the sofa, so I gather that she has not changed a bit.