King Of The Cats

Did you know your cat may be of aristocratic lineage? Yes, our very own moggy with his meal time meow and habit of leaving muddy footprints all over the house may in fact be descended from the Cheshire cat or the Egyptian cat goddess Bast.

If you don’t believe me the fact can be verified, here’s what to do: cut off a piece of his ear (just the pointy top bit will do), and if your mog is of blue blood he’ll shriek, “Don’t do that to me! Do you know who I am?” And he’ll proceed to tell you in detail which king or queen was his uncle or aunt and that Dick Whittington’s cat was his cousin’s great great great great great great great great great great great times seven grandparent (cats are a fertile lot).

He’ll also impart to you a few home truths that you’d rather not hear, things you don’t want the neighbours to know, titbits he’s gossiped about whilst sat on the fence by the wheelie bins with his moggy mates, one eye on the lookout for rats and the odd bit of chicken from a rubbish sack. Such stuff is what cats get up to having slipped through the cat flap.

One man a few centuries back did something terrible to his cat: he cut off its head and chucked it on the fire. As the eyes popped out the mouth twisted and hissed, “Go tell you wife you’ve cut off the head of the King of the Cats. You shall be avenged for such an act.” 

A year on he was playing with his wife’s new kitten (women in those days couldn’t get a divorce, alas) which was sweet as pie till it lunged at his throat, sinking its claws and teeth into his windpipe. The bloke died in agony that very night.

So be warned, you may have a Royal Cat sat right now on your lap, or meowing to be let in for his tuna chunks and a nap on your favourite cushion which he’ll cover with hairs as he’s curled up dreaming malevolently of birds.

Beware.