He arrived in a cardboard box. He was tiny, vicious, scared and looked like a fruit bat!

He was supposed to be pure black but he didn't have much hair around his ears, and that which he did have was standing straight up. My mother who was visiting at the time suggested he go right back from where he came from, straight away. Stephen shut the door and I remained alone in the bedroom with the fruit bat, gingerly trying to stroke him, he had a swift response to this show of affection he bit me and scratched my hand open. This was not going to be a picnic, that was for certain.

He was looked after by Wicket and he was the second kitten to snuggle up to the surrogate Mum, Stacey the Bullie. Thank heavens before long he actually grew some hair and started to look more presentable. He couldn't jump. All the other cats had managed to jump in through the windows, not him he just couldn't master it. Instead he resorted to climbing up the face bricks sticking his claws into the cement like crampons and hauling his small body ever upwards, until eventually he could throw out a paw and hang precariously from the burglar bars until finally plopping down on the back of the sofa, it was exhausting to watch but rather amusing.

One stormy night we were all safely tucked up in bed when we were awakened by a squeeking noise, for a moment or two we could not work out what on earth it could be. We narrowed it down to the bedroom window, there was Wes front paws locked over the top burglar bar, back paws pedaling nineteen to the dozen as he tried, to get some purchase on the slippery window pane.

Another morning he walzed in slightly lobsidely and made for the kitchen, food is always number one priority for him. His back leg had an enormous gaping wound. It looked like it had been sliced through with glass or another sharp object. Stitches were required. They were pulled out , by him and stitches were put in again. At one stage after administering all manner of ointments and salves I was convinced he would lose his leg as it seemed to fester and remain sore for ages. He still has the scar.

Wesley missed Wicket terribly and miaowed vociferously for weeks , looking for his pal. He is above all a thug, must have been all those muscle building climbs up the wall. He has a complete passion for tidbits and despite his rather bad start in life he has turned into an incrediably affection cat. But most of his affection has to do with his comfort, the ultimate hedonist. Gimme food and warmth and I'm happy is his philiosophy.

First thing in the morning he is particularly affectionate, not that everyone would take what he does as affection. He winds himself around your legs which is particularly endearing when it has been raining, and a good couple of kilos of cat is insistant that he must rub his cold sodden coat up against your still warm from the bed legs, no matter that you shriek and try and get away from him, he will have none of that, avoidance tactics just make him more determined in his affection, after the initial rubbing, combined with collapsing on your feet (this is a serious accident waiting to happen) he is so excited he just has to give you a little bite just to round it off.

He loves to sleep on the bed between us. My husband has many nights woken up cold and duvetless with one black cat stretched out over two thirds of the bed, he says he will just buy a kingsize bed, my mother tells him it will be of no use, isn't it amazing how such a seemingly small creature can stretch so far.

Just a little .. well quiet big addition to Wesley's homepage is an autograph from the actor he is named after .. namely one Wesley Snipes... who was kind enough to autograph a print-out pic of Wesley on his recent visit to SA to promote his film "Blade" .. I think it is rather unique so here it is:-

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