Janet Christie: Biggie is in a permanent huff

STRIPER the stray cat has been making himself too much at home. From being grateful to sleep in the hall, he’s moving in on Biggie Smalls’ territory, eyeing up my bed.

And being carried around like a teddy by Youngest. Cue ferocious skirmishes in which streetfighting Striper has the upper paw. Biggie is in a permanent huff.

Then there are the gifts Striper likes to deposit on my bedroom rug – birds, mice, condoms. Something must be done.

Youngest and I take Striper to the vet to see if he’s chipped. He’s not. We put him on Gumtree to see if he’s missed. He’s not. “Can we keep him?” Youngest asks.

“No.” A plan forms. At my next book group I regale them with tales of our gorgeous stray. Especially the couple whose cat has died.

“Perfect teeth,” I tell them (he’s a dentist). “Abandonment issues” (she’s a therapist). “Very affectionate” (they’re cat-loving softies). “Beautiful fur” (Striper’s scabs have dropped off). They’re hooked and carry him off to their cushion-filled, catnip-scented home.

As they drive away Biggie gives me a Cheshire smile.

But all night Biggie howls and prowls, searching for his erstwhile pal.

“He’s lonely,” sighs Youngest. “Let’s get him a kitten for Christmas.”

“A kitten is not for Christmas, it’s for life.”

“I hate you. And so does Biggie Smalls.”