Life has just been turned upside down by Pete (The Cat that looks like Hitler), who walked into the house three weeks ago and has made himself very much at home. He's as ugly as sin and has breath that could blister paint (teething, I gather), but is as cute as they come. His sister 'adopted' a farm just down the road on the same night, so the litter must have been dumped locally to fend for themselves.
He eats for England, and can't understand why the two other cats here don't want to play with him all the time. When he's bored he goes exploring under the floorboards and up into the attic, where he's mesmerised by the crows tap-dancing on the slates. Most of the time, though, he follows me around like a waif, hopping up onto my lap whenever he can and yawning in a most nauseating fashion.
Trouble is, I haven't worked out how to raise the bollock question. He's got a magnificent pair of black nadgers that he spends hours washing, but sometime soon he's going to have to wake up without 'em. Which will give Julian and Sandy, the camp rescue cats, something to crow about, no doubt!