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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