I'm finally replacing those mini-monsters who've ruled most of my life with computer-generated cats!
I blame all my troubles on the ancient Egyptians: they were the first to give moggies superiority complexes by deifying them. And the Phoenicians were no better, making lions the symbol of their goddess of love, Astarte. No wonder cats think they're God's gift to the world. And I'm not just talking about the Persians and Siamese that Lebanese people buy for their snob value, either. I've yet to meet even the plainest alley-cat who didn't think s/he wasn't a dream walking.
On top of that, whoever gave cats the image of sweet, cuddly darlings whose only desire in life is to curl up on a mat and purr should've been hanged, drawn and quartered, made to walk the plank and then shot at dawn. And as for Rudyard Kipling and his "Cat who Walked by Himself" - hah! Show me a cat who's aloof and independent, that's all. I've never met one. Cupboard lovers, the lot of them.
What self-respecting cat would sit on a mat, for goodness sake, when there are beds and sofas to hand? Pull the other leg, it's got bells on.
Who's going to purr unless his/her stomach's full? Who'd be that dumb?
Who wants to be cuddled when that stupid human exists only to put Whiskas on the plate? And that isn't a free ad for the most expensive and extremely smelly catfood most humans probably would rather their pets didn't like best. After a lifetime tied to the can opener, I feel like Lady MacBeth: 'out, out, damned spot, out I say. What, will this hand ne'er be clean?' I've tried every cleaning and sweet smelling substance known to humankind from Jif to joss sticks but all my homes have always ponged of catfood.
And the purring? Hah, not likely. I have long, thin, white scars on my arms to prove the reality is otherwise. My earliest memory is from when I was 3 years old, of our cat, Tommy, scratching me and my mother scolding him. At that early age, I'd already become a sucker: I knew it was my fault Tommy had attacked me. I'd probably been teasing him, I thought, and naturally he got angry and hit back. Thus began a lifetime's slavery.
Slavery to:
Tommy, a Londoner, and Tommy Two, a Barrovian. From opposite ends of Britain, but with a common culture: self aggrandisement. Even the dogs on our street in Barrow used to give Tommy Two a wide berth, and my Mum should have done the same the day he landed in our backyard.
Judi, who liked to play tag and just as you were about to catch her, moved away tantalisingly just that little bit further. And to add insult to injury, looked back to make sure you felt totally exasperated - sound familiar?
Mojo, whose speciality was spilling Christmas tinsel all over my new red carpet. He opened the sideboard door to get at the tinsel, first. Clever, eh?
Elf my Nigerian cat whose favourite game was flinging all the soil out of the plant pots on my balcony - recognise this one?
At least up to this point in my life, I'd been owned by only one petty tyrant. But then, I started to see double. In Lebanon, they come as tyrannical 
Kerry who managed to be born in the garage below my Beirut flat just in nice time to blackmail me into taking her home. Who lived in my flat for 9 months before she'd let me cuddle her, and who stubbornly resisted the advances of anyone else for over 13 years. How did us Brits get conned into believing that black cats are lucky omens?
Her twin sister Gold who ignored me completely 99% of the time (the odd 1%, you've guessed it, being breakfast, elevenses, lunch, tea, dinner and supper time) but always whined for attention all day the day I had a deadline to meet.
Sometimes it gets worse than twins:
Leftover, a stray in Turkey decided to have her triplets right outside my front door.
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, twin ginger nuts on Mount Lebanon, thought I was their mother because they lost their own Mum at any early age, and adopted me instead (they smelt that catfood). Cats' mother, that's me, folks!
Princess and her brothers were quadruplets. Their mother died, too. When Princess gave birth herself, she decided to play safe and bring her twin kittens inside my house. One morning, when I opened the door to go out shopping, she just waltzed in with one in her mouth, right through the front door. As I stood staring in amazement, she left me holding that baby and went off to fetch the other one.
And those twin inkspots Princess insisted on bringing up on my sofa gave me ringworm in their first week on earth. I called them Bilbo and Frodo, Lords of the Ringworm.
They started as they meant to go on. One highlight of my life was when they rolled two kilos of apples and tangerines all over my kitchen floor and ate half my wholemeal loaf. You've been there, done that, bought the T-shirt?
Although two of us had checked that they were male, some months later both of them decided to give birth - to four and five kittens respectively - chez moi rather than out in the January cold.
Lebanese tradition is more sensible than British - here, black cats are regarded as unlucky.
If anyone has a cure for the mental deficiency that causes me to love cats against my own better judgment, please let me know!
As far as I know, all these pictures are in the public domain. If any are not, please let me know and I'll remove them.
Links to my other pages.
Home.
Illustrated Creed.
The Lord's Prayer.
Synopsis of my novel The Gift.
Some of my Lebanon photos.
From Barrow to Beirut excerpt.
My Advent calendar.