When cats attack

Those of you reading who know me well, know that I have no love for cats.  I have never met a cat I liked.  I met a few cats I could tolerate, but mostly I hate them all.

I especially hate the official cat resident of our home on Holloway Road, and its evil friend.  Oliver spends most of his time outside, only coming in to bellow and meow when he is hungry.  Once he has been fed, and our backs turned, Domino, or “Dommy” as the lady next door calls him, will sneak in through the cat door, helping himself to all of Oliver’s food.  Even people who like cats (like Lotte & Louis) don’t like Oliver, and actively dislike Domino.

When we returned home yesterday evening, a chicken carcass was found on the ground next to the stove snatched from the pot of chicken soup that had been cooling.  I didn’t throw it there.  Lotte didn’t throw it there.  Louis didn’t throw it there.  Rata can’t reach the stove.  How did it get there?  There are two possible suspects, though unfortunately we shall never know who the real culprit is.

I am hoping both of them contract feline leukemia or die of natural causes sometime soon.  I hate those cats.

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