IT came as quite the shock when Sheila traipsed through the front door with a succession of kittens in her mouth. Her fourth brood no less and such a mixed bag, all short-haired except the grey one that looked like a proper little Persian. My favourite, he was the plucky one that rummaged into the synthetic fur hearth rug looking for milk.
Her last two pregnancies had resulted in the little ones being there one day, gone the next, only for Mum to admit that Dad had drowned them. I begged him not to go through with it this time but he was insistent. An hour or so later, he was back in the house and so were the babies.
“Oh, Daddy, thank God. How come?”
He had not been able to go through with it. So he did have some sense in him after all.
Copyright (c) M K MacInnes