THE LIFE AND TIMES OF A RUBBISH BIN CAT – PART 1
On the day Sonny was born, I followed his mother as she prowled the
house, armed with a box and towel. Woody meowed her frustration at
not being able to go outside (we lived on a seven-acre life-style block and was
worried she’d chose a place in the bush). Finally, in desperation, the spare
room wardrobe decided upon, four tabby kittens were born. I watched in wonder
at this miracle.
Once weaned, Sonny and his sister went off to
live with my stepson, Stephen. Living in a flat full of young men and able to
do as one wished was probably cat heaven, but city life proved dangerous for
Sonny as he and his sister were hit by a car. The sister died on impact; Sonny
had a pin in his leg. Stephen moved to England and where else could
seven-year-old Sonny go but his old home? Except by then we had moved – to a
small remote seaside settlement, a mix of permanent residents and holiday
homes. I was reluctant. We had enough animals with two cats, a dog, six
chickens and a goat.
“He won’t be any bother,” said my husband, Gary.
How wrong he was!
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