My chum Jenny recently told me a funny story about her cat, Titch.

Regular readers will remember that Titch is the psycho-moggy who’s never really been the same since he was hit on the head by a Ford Cortina when he was a kitten, and now in his dotage he’s already earned the vet enough money to put two children through private education. Anyway, recently Titch had been having…um…a bit of a problem in the litter tray department, so Jenny took him to the vet yet again.

Poor old Titch gets a bit confused when he has to go anywhere in his cat basket: Sometimes it’s because Jenny’s going to visit her man in Swansea and he’s going to Auntie Hilda’s for the duration, which he loves. Other times it’s because he’s off to the V-E-T, and on this he’s not so keen. Anyway, the vet poked him and prodded him around a bit, before deciding to give him an enema. This was a process the cat didn’t enjoy very much – and who can blame him? – but worse was to come. It isn’t far from the vet’s to Jenny’s house, but it was too far for Titch. He scrambled frantically around in the carrying basket, dsperate to distance his nose as far as possible from his own – er – “other end” – and in seconds so was Jenny as the car filled with the appalling smell.

The joys of being a pet owner, eh?

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