Tiny One

Tutz bounces around the bedroom like bambi.

She thunders around like a herd of enraged baby elephants.

Occaisionally she will stop - dead in her tracks - with a look of complete amazement on her face. Where is she? Who are these other cats? Why is SHE a cat? She will stand in the silence and PRROOOTTT to herself before racing out of the door at a hundred miles an hour to tackle the rest of the upstairs.

She hides in the airing cupboard until Trotter has walked past.

She leaps like a flying bat from the top layer of her scratchy pole. She knocks over pictures in frames and knocks hats from on top of the shelves.

She puts on 50 Cent and then some G Unit and chants some offensive rap at Fat Boy Faggot who is lying in the bath with a face pack on.

She trys on shoes and chases flies, she slithers from layer to layer of her pole.

Then she curls up into a tiny ball and sleeps the sleep of the dead, conserving her energy for the next assault on the house.