Every writer needs a cat friend. Cleo is a four-ish-year-old rescue cat who came to live with us a few weeks ago. She’s unusually (adorably) small, which makes me think she may, far-back, be some kind of pygmy blend. She likes company, being sung/hummed to, and treading cautiously outside while you supervise. She’s a bit like a dog; she sniffs loudly, snores and farts, and drags her favourite toy around, making a scraping noise (that absolutely kills me) as she goes, because it’s a scarily-realistic mouse on the end of some elastic attached to a tube of paper. She is also obsessed with a paper KFC bag, and not the book-page-covered cardboard box that we lovingly prepared and filled with a fleecey tiger onesy before she got here.
You can follow Cleo’s more high-brow movements and musings on Twitter at @mycatissmart