What stirs the mind when invited to propose a known felon for a prize.

Would I nominate my cat for pet of the month? Er, no in all conscience. Well, if you would like a cat that spends many of her waking moments feeling she is a cat-hating human, I present Poppy, the half-pint tearaway. This little thug, in an earlier home, terrorised a Siamese and even had a few goes at the gigantic neutered tom. Her life then was one lovely skirmish after another. Her then owner’s neighbour, a kind hearted lady, offered to take her in. Within a week Poppy had driven out the three resident felines who spent their time sitting on an external window sill looking in.
“Will you look after Poppy for a short time?” I was asked five years ago. My former cat, having transferred her affections to my next door neighbour (long story) was completely unconcerned about the appearance of Poppy in her former home, living as she was in the lap of feline luxury.
How this was to change! Within a short time, Cat (for such was her name) had found an admirable defensive position under the garden shed and Poppy had refined her idiosyncratic attitude towards other felines into her new sport of Cat chasing. Cat, being one of those beautiful and dignified members of her species, although an excellent mouser, paraded her bruised dignity with all the equanimity she could muster.
Meanwhile, Poppy and I were getting on fairly well, she began to recognise and obey ‘Come here’ and developed the system of lifting her right hind leg so that I could slide my hand under and pick her up so she could rest on my arm like a cheetah on a tree branch. Knowing that she would always be lifted and lowered to avoid back strain or painful slips on the laminated floor she continues this habit.
I suppose the episode of the squirrel was as much my fault as Poppy’s. I subscribe (after knowing Poppy) to the theory that cats regard humans as equals but inordinately thick when it comes to the provision of food and will, with unceasing patience, lay a half dead captive before the ‘pupil’. All you have to do is kill it and eat it. I developed the stratagem of having an old pint glass and a piece of card; normally the lesson went like this, Poppy jumps in through the bedroom window and chirps to me in that ‘Now try to get it right this time!’ voice a few seconds later appearing with the captive of the moment held almost gently in her jaws; over would go the pint glass and under would slide the card and thus held the captive would be transferred to the garden to make its escape. I became expert, voles would lie in shock for about ten seconds upon release and it was easy to place the pint glass over. Mice were much quicker to recover and a swift movement was necessary in order to avoid an under the sofa and furniture, scolding Poppy safari. Shrews mainly just gave up the ghost anyway and slow worm cast their tails in protest. So, you can imagine my unpreparedness when, to the accompaniment of her normal chirping, Poppy walked in with what appeared to be an enormous handlebar moustache. Tail high, she approached me, sat and released the embodiment of greased lightning. It was indignant, it was angry and it was up my curtains in two seconds flat. In less time than it takes to read the previous sentence, books were cascading off the shelves, thumping onto computer and floor with equal disregard, brass ornament were transposed into ballistic missiles chairs were over turned and Poppy and squirrel performed a chase far in excess of the tamer, more civilised Tom and Jerry. One feels at moments like this, that a pint glass is more than a little inadequate. There was this grey nest and bird table robber, a tree rat causing mayhem and the worst thing was, if I caught it, I would have to kill it – that’s the law. Opening all doors and windows that led to the out side, I grabbed a broom and joined the chase. The squirrel must have been disconcerted to find that the broom could reach it where the cat could not. Little did it know that I could not use it as a lethal weapon.
Perspicacity is probably the greatest asset in the armoury of disreputable creatures and it was fortunate that the squirrel surmised that an open door presented an escape route and, after rending my best curtain à la the veil of Jerusalem, resolved the crisis by exiting stage left, rapidly.
I extricated the raging ball of razor sharp claws and needle teeth from the bath towel that had entombed her, simply by lifting her by the scruff of the neck, a very infrequent manoeuvre that always has the effect of reducing her to a docile ball of fluff, which ball, on release, becomes a somewhat modified warrior; this time fortunately sharing the acumen of its former victim, exited in pursuit.
Poppy still brings gifts; a few weeks ago I was delayed at my son’s house and drove home in the winter dark. The bedroom window (it’s a bungalow) was open and I had left food for Poppy. I went in and switched on the computer, prepared to get on with some work. As the whirrs and bleeps of the awakening computer died down, I became aware of the rhythmic crunch-crunch that only comes from a cat that is busy eating. I went to the bedroom and followed the noise, peering under the bed. No, it wasn’t the squirrel it was a good-sized rabbit or rather the fore end of a good sized rabbit. Now, perhaps some veterinarian expert can tell me how a half-pint cat can a, kill a rabbit it’s own size, transport it across a field, jump with it in its jaws to a ground floor window sill then consume almost half of it ? Road kill in these parts is attended to by foxes and badgers and it wasn’t squashed anyway!
I only know that as Poppy a few moments later, leapt upon my lap en route to the high back of my chair, politely turning her face away to burp contentedly, I realised yet again, I was in the company of a remarkable feline. But pet of the month?.....Nah...