Care of pets: code of conduct

An open letter to the Prime Minister

Dear Sir,

I attach below the thoughts of my friend Mr Cat on your government's proposed Animal Welfare Act, as dictated to me. I must emphasize that these views are his alone. I have, however, taken the liberty of replacing some his vocabulary with words more suitable for publication. Mr Cat lacks a formal education and is unused to polite society.

Old Bolingbroke.

My name is Michael Cat, and I am a cold-blooded killer. Have I got your attention? Now then. My old mate OB has told about this 'pet owners code of conduct' balderdash and I think it's a diabolical liberty. Oh yes.

A little bit about me. My old Mum, God bless her, had about 46 kittens. Good to me, she was, my old Mum. Till she threw me out, that is. Talk about shocked. There I am, snuggling up for a snack from the old mammary gland, when - Bang! - she gives me a clip round the ear so sharp I'm laid flat out with my paws in the air. Take yourself off,' she says, snarling like, 'and don't come back. It's time you stood on your own four feet, you idle little kitten. Tough old cat, my Ma. Made me what I am today.

Now, as rule, I'm a pretty cool geezer. Until I'm crossed, that is. And I'm fairly cheesed off by that Margaret Beckett who dreamed this baloney up. I'm not surprised you told her to push off to the Foreign Office where she can't do no harm. OB callled her and interfering old curmudgeon. He banged on something chronic when he read about it and threw the paper down on the kitchen floor. At least I'll have something to sit on if I don't feel like going out tonight. Mind you OB does go on a bit. Poor old beggar. I bet I'm the only one who'll listen to the boring old fellow.

Anyway, it appears that so-called pet owners are told to follow a load of rules about looking after the animals that live with them. If not, the old Bill will be round. If you're not feeding the parrot the right seed you'll be doing bird before you can say 'Pretty Polly'. It's all a lot of blessed mollycoddling - 0r should I say moggycoddling? Get it? Good that.

Now then, let's get a few things clear. I ain't no furry pet and I ain't got no beloved owner neither. I spend time with OB, I grant you, and he usually has a bit of food for me, but that's just friendship. Know what I mean? I ask you, if I kill a rat, he's welcome to a chunk of it, ain't he?

Anyway, I'm often round at an old girl's called Queenie. Big bird, very cuddly. What you might call 'tactile'. Always squeezing me against her upper torso. Gets a bit boring like, but I put up with it because she stocks a better class of cat food than OB. He just gets that cheap stuff in bent tins from Tesco's.

Now, I've noticed something funny about you human males. You're idea of mating is to find some female who don't like you and then live in the same house fighting like - well, like cat and dog - until the female kicks you out. That's where old Queenie is different. She's got lots of mates. And they don't mind that squeezing caper neither.

So, what am I going on about? I'll tell you. It's this. OB ain't got no pets. He did have a goldfish, but he poured that down the kasi when he was trying to clean it out, the daft clown. And he let the budgie fly out the window. He had a hamster as well, but I ate that.

Now, sex. No, hang about. I'll talk about that later. Keep you in suspenders, won't it? So what's this diet thing you go on about in your fatuous rules. Grub, right. Now, I don't mind the food old Bolly gives me, but as a rule I like to start the day with a light breakfast, like a shrew. Later on, maybe a mouse. But what tickles my taste buds is a plump young fledgeling. Handsome. and those feathers keep me nice and regular. I'll you something else. In season, butterflies make a very tasty nibble. Not a lot of people know that.

Ah, but them bleeding hearts in Hampstead don't like that, do they? They want to protect the little birdies from big bad me. So I'm supposed to wear a collar with a blinking bell on. and my address. What's that then? No formal fixed abode? I'll tell you, if they think I'm walking around an ID card, playing blooming 'Jingle Bells', they've got another blasted think coming. Stroll on!

And another thing, I'm supposed to be locked up at night. For my protection. For my protection! Do me a favour. Don't surprise me a bit, not with this foolish government. I mean, any bloke with a suntan and a towel round his head can be whisked off to Belmarsh just for saying 'Umshallah' and banged up for months while the bogies think up a charge.

Protection, my eye. Let me tell you, I can handle myself. kids don't bother me, not twice anyway. And dogs? Don't make me laugh. I could eat a Pekingese for breakfast. And those bully-boy Rottweillers don't sound so tough when I get on their back and start digging my claws in. They're big dogs, but they're out of condition. With me it's a full-time job. I hate soppy dogs, slobbering, servile things. So eager to please and be loved. It's pathetic.

The trouble with your dog is that it's overbred. All this pedigree cobblers. It's happening to us cats too. Do you know, I saw a couple of Siamese cats the other day. They were being taken for a walk. On a lead! Stone me, what a life! Have you seen those Yank ragdoll things. Should be drowned at birth. Genocide, I call it. They want to kill off all the decent cats in the country. And any that do get born are supposed to have their favourite organs cut off. Take it from me, any vet gets near me with a knife is going to lose a lot more than his eyeballs.

What is it about sex with you humans. I mean, you're all at it like rabbits, aren't you? Well, not OB, of course, poor old soul. So why do you want to stop me? I've got a right to raise a family. I know I don't actually raise them personally. That's female work. Delegation, like. But that's my culture, and you have to respect other cultures, don't you?

So, Tony, me old chuna, don't fret your little napper about 'enshrining my rights.' I'll look after them. You see, I've got freedom. I'm fancy free. I'm a feline cat, for God's sake. And you silly human beings should be worried about your freedom. I've heard all about your ID cards, your DNA registers, security cameras, on the spot fines and trials without juries, imprisonment without charge. Not to mention your jobs and wives and kids and bosses and mortgages. Breaks my bleeding heart, it does, you poor fools.

Anyway, OB tells me I've got to stop because he's fed up with being insulted and he's off down the pub. On the pull, more like. Some hope. As a mater of fact, I think I'll go out for a stroll myself. See if I can't find some nice pussy. Oh, come on, OB, I can say that, can't I? I'm a cat.

Michael Cat (signed on his behalf by Old Bolingbroke)

PS Humphrey was a friend of mine. Take care.