The Killer Cat's Christmas

1: Horrible, horrible, horrible!

OKAY, OKAY! SO run off sobbing, but I did not kill that moth on purpose. It was not my fault. I do agree that I reached out to biff it once or twice. But it was annoying me, flapping round and round my face.

And I’m not sure that it’s dead anyway. I mean, I saw it sort of flapping off, looking a bit lopsided. But after that it disappeared. For all I know, the thing’s still somewhere in the house, minding its own business and mucking about wherever it wants.

Unlike me, locked in this garage in disgrace, after a horrible Christmas.

So go on, ask me. ‘Dear, dear Tuffy, why was your Christmas so horrible?’

And I’ll explain: because it is a festival that wasn’t made for cats. Just think about it. There’s a tree we’re not allowed to climb.

And there are tempting dangly decorations we’re not allowed to touch.

And there are glorious glittering strands of bright, bright tinsel hung far too high for us to reach. Shiny wrapped presents we have to keep our paws off.

And, if we’re really unlucky, horrible cold white snow all over the garden.

No. Not my favourite time of year.

So go on. Ask the next question. ‘But, Tuffy, what on earth happened? How come you’ve ended up locked in the garage?’

I’ll tell you. It was because this Christmas was even worse than usual. This Christmas was terrible.

Frightful.

Awful.

Miserable.

All wrong.

Horrible, horrible, horrible. That’s what it was.

I’ll tell you the whole story.