When we had a working tomcat who beat the bounds of his territory and defended it from all comers, I knew he was losing his mojo on the day he came home covered in mud and reeking of somebody else’s piss. The contents of his bladder is part of the fighting cat’s armament, and poor old Bill had taken a broadside. The mud came from the flower bed in which the battle was fought, and the piss, of course.

Washing Bill was a mob-handed job, but that time he endured our ministrations in the kitchen sink almost meekly until the worst of the mess was out of his fur. Then he erupted like Vesuvius and shot out of the kitchen, making straight for the sofa where he left a large wet spot that took hours to dry.

Typical.