Ginger Cat Quotes

And then there were cats, thought Dog. He'd surprised the huge ginger cat from next door and had attempted to reduce it to cowering jelly by means of the usual glowing stare and deep-throated growl, which had always worked on the damned in the past. This time they had earned him a whack on the nose that had made his eyes water. Cats, Dog considered, were clearly a lot tougher than lost souls. He was looking forward to a further cat experiment, which he planned would consist of jumping around and yapping excitedly at it. It was a long shot, but it just might work.

Rory's not my pet dog!' I [Amy] yelled at the Doctor. 'Well, that would be better.' He was truly angry. 'Dogs I can live with.' He paused, suddenly hopeful. 'Quite sure you're not a cat person?' 'This isn't getting him back,' I said. He pulled a face. 'Who said I wanted him back? I was just suggesting a few alternatives. Nice little ginger tom. Have to get it neutered, of course.' He smiled winningly. 'I'd let you name him.' 'We'll find Rory.' I was firm. 'And then neuter him.

Sorry, Book," she mutters, lifting the cat gingerly onto the back of the old chair, where he does his best impression of an inconvenienced bread loaf.

the ginger cat glares at nothing and everything.

Belinsky: 'Who is this Moloch that eats his children?' Herzen: 'It's the Ginger Cat.

He’d surprised the huge ginger cat from next door and had attempted to reduce it to cowering jelly by means of the usual glowing stare and deep-throated growl, which had always worked on the damned in the past. This time they earned him a whack on the nose that had made his eyes water. Cats, Dog considered, were clearly a lot tougher than lost souls.

Cat jumps on the island. He gingerly sidesteps our mugs and with a curious expression sniffs Erik’s croissant. “Oh, buddy, no,” Erik whispers. “You don’t want to do that.” Cat takes a delicate lick. Then he turns to me to stare with a horrified, betrayed expression.

It was her own fault, as simple as that, and fussing over it or letting herself feel sad wouldn't do a whit of good. It was a shame she wouldn't see him again, for she had truly liked him, and in a different world... Enough. Enough. It was done, and over, and she'd forget him soon enough, because she had never been the sort of girl to sit around and lick her wounds and moan about how life was unfair. That's what her mum taught her. "Chin up," she'd always said when Ann had come to her in tears about something awful that had happened. A teacher had been cruel at school, her cat had run away, awful Billy from round the corner had pulled her pigtails and said no one would ever kiss her because of her ginger hair. "Just keep your chin up, Ann, and you can face anything," Mum had said. "And don't look back, no matter what you do." Her mum had never been one for hugs or soft words, but she had been honest, and most of the time she'd been right, too. So chin up it was, and no looking back.

The ginger she-cat behind him is Scarlet, and the silver tabby is O’Hara.

Our midnight feasts aren't so much 'lashings of ginger beer' as 'whatever booze we can smuggle in'.

The grass is green The tulip is red A ginger cat walks over The pink almond petals on the flower bed. Enough has been said to show It is life we are taking about. - Oh grateful colours; bright looks!

A few moments later the bus pulled up. It was an old-fashioned red double-decker bus that you could jump on at the back. I went to sit on the bench at the back of the bus and was placing my guitar case in the storage space near where the conductor was standing when, behind me, I saw a sudden flash of ginger fur. Before I knew it, Bob had jumped up and plonked himself on the seat next to where I was sitting.

let us be the kind of friends who hold hands, who when pressed palm-to-palm say yes, we are a couple of queers who spoon each other to sleep: 2 ginger cats warmly curled under blankets when the cold snap hits

THUNDERCLAN LEADER FIRESTAR—ginger tom with a flame-coloured pelt DEPUTY GREYSTRIPE—long-haired grey tom MEDICINE CAT CINDERPELT—dark grey she-cat APPRENTICE, LEAFPAW WARRIORS (toms, and she-cats without kits)   MOUSEFUR—small dusky brown she-cat APPRENTICE, SPIDERPAW   DUSTPELT—dark brown tabby tom APPRENTICE, SQUIRRELPAW   SANDSTORM—pale ginger she-cat APPRENTICE, SORRELPAW   CLOUDTAIL—long-haired white tom   BRACKENFUR—golden brown tabby tom APPRENTICE, WHITEPAW   THORNCLAW—golden brown tabby tom APPRENTICE, SHREWPAW   BRIGHTHEART—white she-cat with ginger patches   BRAMBLECLAW—dark brown tabby tom with amber eyes   ASHFUR—pale grey (with darker flecks) tom, dark blue eyes   RAINWHISKER—dark grey tom with blue eyes   SOOTFUR—lighter grey tom with amber eyes APPRENTICES (more than six moons old, in training to become warriors)   SORRELPAW—tortoiseshell and white shecat with amber eyes   SQUIRRELPAW—dark ginger she-cat with green eyes   LEAFPAW—light brown tabby she-cat with amber eyes and white paws   SPIDERPAW—long-limbed black tom with brown underbelly and amber eyes   SHREWPAW—small dark brown tom with amber eyes   WHITEPAW—white she-cat with green eyes QUEENS (she-cats expecting or nursing kits)   GOLDENFLOWER—pale ginger coat, the oldest nursery queen

And Throgmorten’s arched ginger body came flying out of the creepers like a furry orange boomerang and landed slap in the basket. Christopher was deeply impressed – so impressed that he was a bit slow getting the lid down. Throgmorten came pouring over the edge of the basket again in an instant ginger stream. The Goddess seized him and crammed him back, whereupon a large number of flailing ginger legs – at least seven, to Christopher’s bemused eyes – clawed hold of her bracelets and her robe and her legs under the robe, and tore pieces off them. Christopher waited and aimed for an instant when one of Throgmorten’s heads – he seemed to have at least three, each with more fangs than seemed possible – came into range. Then he banged the basket lid on it, hard. Throgmorten, for the blink of an eye, became an ordinary dazed cat instead of a fighting devil.

Don’t listen to what any of the assholes say. It’s always okay to think a puppy is cute. And if the person you are speaking to doesn’t believe the puppy is cute, back away slowly and with great suspicion. If they’re cat people, you can test them with kittens. If they dislike puppies and kittens, leave and go to a safe place with people who like kittens or puppies.

Without the ginger kitten, she would have been left with her own thoughts all night, worrying about what was going to happen at her police interview the next day. As it was, she seemed to fly from one kitten exploit to another. Was it any wonder that ‘catastrophe’ started with ‘cat’?

Paul, all I know is that this is the third time we've talked tonight, you're saying 'fuck' to me, I'm a guy, and your penis has been mentioned numerous times. Jesus, you're acting like you're some teenager. Work through this shit with a shrink, man. I don't care if you're gay.' Here again, I achieved silence. But not for long. The breathing became heavy and then, 'What the fuck kind of game are you playing?' 'It's no game, man. You want to close a sale? I want to see your penis. It's a fair exchange if you ask me.' He hung up again, and I reached for my perfectly spicy, scratch-your-throat-like-a-cat-claw-hot Blenheim ginger ale and took a long swallow. This particular credit card company has not called me again. And, to my delight, AT&T never called me again after I asked one of their friendly Southern females if by any chance she happened to be a male-to-female transsexual, and if so, what vaginal depth her surgeon had managed to attain for her. 'Four inches is pretty common,' I told her. 'But if you dilate religiously, you can probably achieve five.' I even got the phrase 'self-lubricating' out before she hung up on me.

You bought that monster?” said Ron, his mouth hanging open. “He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?” said Hermione, glowing. That was a matter of opinion, thought Harry. The cat’s ginger fur was thick and fluffy, but it was definitely a bit bowlegged and its face looked grumpy and oddly squashed, as though it had run headlong into a brick wall. Now that Scabbers was out of sight, however, the cat was purring contentedly in Hermione’s arms.

It is a proven historical fact that, in Britain, there is a very strong correlation between the locations of attempted Norse raids in the 7th and 8th Centuries, and the proportion of ginger cats in the feline population. Many have pondered what might have caused this correlation. Some historians have argued that the Vikings came plundering in search of ginger cats, and so struck at those parts of Britain where ginger cats were in abundance. These historians are wrong. Some historians have argued that the Vikings brought ginger cats with them on their raids, to aid in navigation, an early form of Cat Nav. These historians are wrong. Some historians have argued that, as the evidence for an increase in ginger cats is evident, but there is no increase in Norse DNA in the population in question, the Vikings were themselves ginger cats, possibly a race of were-ginger cats. These historians are both wrong and insane.

They get to Marianne’s house at three, in baking afternoon heat. The undergrowth outside the gate hums with insects and a ginger cat is lying on the bonnet of a car across the street. Through the gate Connell can see the house, the same way it looks in the photographs she’s sent him, a stonework facade and white-shuttered windows. He sees the garden table with two cups left on its surface. Elaine rings the bell and after a few seconds someone appears from around the side of the house. It’s Peggy. Lately Connell has become convinced that Peggy doesn’t like him, and he finds himself watching her behavior for evidence.

As Mrs. Turner took what would be her last walk around the vegetable garden, Smarty, the ginger tabby, materialized to sit beside the flowerpot man, a position that afforded him a bird's-eye view of the petit fishpond. There was a larger, more formal water feature on the western side of the house, a rectangular pool with a leafy canopy above it and marble tiles around the rim, well-fed goldfish gleaming beneath glistening lily pads, but this little pond was far more cheerful: small and shallow, with fallen petals floating on its surface. The cat's focus was absolute as he watched for flickers of rose gold in the water, paw at the ready.

I had a cat named Ginger when I was a kid. He was orange. I named him when I was three, before I knew Ginger was a girl’s name, according to most of the world. Anyway, when I was around eight, a raccoon attacked fierce Ginger. He came walking up our driveway with part of his intestines hanging out, dragging on the concrete. My dad said he’d be fine. No one believed my dad. Ginger somehow managed to climb into the rafters of our garage. I was 99 percent sure he was going there to die, but he didn’t. He spent seven days licking his wounds until he healed himself. Cats are awesome! We had a lot of respect for Ginger after that, even though he was kind of an asshole

Interesting fact: Though the Calm Act was unprecedented in stripping U.S. citizens of their basic Constitutional freedoms, it was surprisingly well-received in most areas of the country. In particular, its Internet censorship managed to kill off spam and trolling on the social networks. The sharing of cat videos continued undisturbed. For

A startling chain of events had caused this forced emergence of Marston-le-Willows from its pastoral seclusion, its almost mediaeval English passivity and quietude into the hustle and noise of twentieth-century publicity. That chain of events had culminated in a mysterious murder and apparently there are few people who are not immediately interested in a mysterious murder. It is said that even such exalted personages as prime ministers, chancellors of the exchequer, law lords, headmasters of famous schools and secretly a bishop or two are addicted to the reading of fictional murders as an invigorating relaxation from the terrible strain of their stupendous mental activities.

Tina Gardenia was as happy as a cat with a full belly. She had kept Luca Lowell’s heart safely on her charm bracelet, and it had been wonderful. It was Sunday morning again, and Luca was clunking around in the tiny kitchen on one bare foot and one walking cast, making coffee by the smell of it. Tina snuggled Muffins close to her face. “You’re a handsome boy,” she cooed. “I know you’re talking to the cat,” Luca said. “Why don’t you talk to me like that?” “You already get more than enough compliments, Mr. Lowell.” “How many dunks do I dunk your tea bags?” “You don’t dunk. Just pour the water on and let it steep.” “How’s it going to steep if you’re not dunking?” “Fine,” she said. “Give it... seven dunks.” “Gotcha. Seven dunks.” He started counting them out. Tina nuzzled the ginger cat sprawled out on the couch. “You’re the prettiest boy in the world,” she said. Luca growled, “I heard that.” “Focus on your dunking.” “Darn it. I lost count.” “That’ll teach you for listening in on other people’s private conversations.” Luca snorted and went back to dunking. For the last two weeks, Muffins had been coming to visit at the tiny house regularly, and Luca had been pretending to be a jealous boyfriend. He and the cat were bonding on their own, though, often snuggling up on the couch together, watching their favorite shows. Luca liked true crime shows, and Muffins liked a warm lap and chin scratches.

Sarah sits up and reaches over, plucking a string on my guitar. It’s propped against the nightstand on her side of the bed. “So . . . do you actually know how to play this thing?” “I do.” She lies down on her side, arm bent, resting her head in her hand, regarding me curiously. “You mean like, ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,’ the ‘ABC’s,’ and such?” I roll my eyes. “You do realize that’s the same song, don’t you?” Her nose scrunches as she thinks about it, and her lips move as she silently sings the tunes in her head. It’s fucking adorable. Then she covers her face and laughs out loud. “Oh my God, I’m an imbecile!” “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself, but if you say so.” She narrows her eyes. “Bully.” Then she sticks out her tongue. Big mistake. Because it’s soft and pink and very wet . . . and it makes me want to suck on it. And then that makes me think of other pink, soft, and wet places on her sweet-smelling body . . . and then I’m hard. Painfully, achingly hard. Thank God for thick bedcovers. If this innocent, blushing bird realized there was a hot, hard, raging boner in her bed, mere inches away from her, she would either pass out from all the blood rushing to her cheeks or hit the ceiling in shock—clinging to it by her fingernails like a petrified cat over water. “Well, you learn something new every day.” She chuckles. “But you really know how to play the guitar?” “You sound doubtful.” She shrugs. “A lot has been written about you, but I’ve never once heard that you play an instrument.” I lean in close and whisper, “It’s a secret. I’m good at a lot of things that no one knows about.” Her eyes roll again. “Let me guess—you’re fantastic in bed . . . but everybody knows that.” Then she makes like she’s playing the drums and does the sound effects for the punch-line rim shot. “Ba dumb ba, chhhh.” And I laugh hard—almost as hard as my cock is. “Shy, clever, a naughty sense of humor, and a total nutter. That’s a damn strange combo, Titebottum.” “Wait till you get to know me—I’m definitely one of a kind.” The funny thing is, I’m starting to think that’s absolutely true. I rub my hands together, then gesture to the guitar. “Anyway, pass it here. And name a musician. Any musician.” “Umm . . . Ed Sheeran.” I shake my head. “All the girls love Ed Sheeran.” “He’s a great singer. And he has the whole ginger thing going for him,” she teases. “If you were born a prince with red hair? Women everywhere would adore you.” “Women everywhere already adore me.” “If you were a ginger prince, there’d be more.” “All right, hush now smartarse-bottum. And listen.” Then I play “Thinking Out Loud.” About halfway through, I glance over at Sarah. She has the most beautiful smile, and I think something to myself that I’ve never thought in all my twenty-five years: this is how it feels to be Ed Sheeran.

She would've sworn the cat- or kitten, for it sounded quite small- was right in front of her, but there was nothing there. She straightened and glanced at Val. His azure eyes were alight with amusement. "Phantom cats and ghostly kittens." She frowned at him. "I don't believe in ghosts." "Boring." He kissed her on the nose and, while she was still blinking in surprise, leaned down and did something to the back of the cupboard. Suddenly one of the boards came away in his hands. She leaned down again to look. Staring back at them was a ginger cat, her green eyes wide, and at her teats were a row of wriggling kittens in a rainbow of colors. She was curled in the small space of what was evidently a false back to the cupboard. "But how did she get in?" Bridget breathed, enchanted. The kittens were at that wee fluffy stage and absolutely adorable. "Magic," Val said promptly, and then, more prosaically, "or the back of the cupboard's rotted away.

A small ginger cat arrives on my terrace every afternoon, to curl up in the sun and slumber peacefully for a couple of hours. When he awakes, he gets on his feet with minimum effort, arches his back and walks away as he had come. The same spot every day, the same posture, the same pace. There may be better spots—sunnier, quieter, frequented by birds that can be hunted when the cat is rested and restored. But there is no guarantee, and the search will be never-ending, and there may rarely be time to sleep after all that searching and finding. It occurs to me that perhaps the cat is a monk. By this I do not mean anything austere. I doubt anyone in single minded pursuit of enlightenment ever finds it. A good monk would be a mild sort of fellow, a bit of a sensualist, capable of compassion for the world, but also for himself. He would know that it is all right not to climb every mountain. A good monk would know that contentment is easier to attain than happiness, and that it is enough.

As we walked off the plank, we were greeted by a swarm of felines that clearly knew the boat's arrival time. There were cats stretched out on the dock, cats lounging in the morning sun, cats playing and fighting one another, and cats cleaning themselves. Calicos, tabbies, tuxedoes, ginger, and black cats. At the end of the dock were crates that had been converted into blanket-covered little cat apartments. Tails stuck out from inside the shelters. The few buildings on the street were adorned with graffiti of cats. A Japanese tourist couple also getting off the boat were more prepared than us- they had bonito flake treats to dole out to the felines. But the local fishermen sorted their wares in sheds by the road were the real treat-givers. They threw out small fish to the cats. The lucky cats on the receiving end pranced by us with fish heads and tails sticking out from either side of their mouths.

I start suddenly and lift my head. Bethke too, I see, is sitting up. Even Tjaden is on the alert. The year-old instinct has reported something, none yet knows what, but certainly something strange is afoot. We raise our heads gingerly and listen, our eyes narrowed to slits to penetrate the darkness. Every one is awake, every sense is strained to the uttermost, every muscle ready to receive the unknown, oncoming thing that can mean only danger. The hand grenades scrape over the ground as Willy, our best bomb-thrower, worms himself forward. We lie close pressed to the ground, like cats. Beside me I discover Ludwig Breyer. There is nothing of sickness in his tense features now. His is the same cold, deathly expression as every one’s here, the front-line face. A fierce tension has frozen it—so extraordinary is the impression that our subconsciousness has imparted to us long before our senses are able to identify it.

Flat cat?'" "It has a Latin name but I never bothered to learn it." Angelo tickled it with a forefinger; it began to purr like a high-pitched buzzer. It had no discernible features, being merely a pie-shaped mass of sleek red fur a little darker than Castor's own hair. "They're affectionate little things and many of the sand rats keep them for pets—a man has to have someone to talk to when he's out prospecting and a flat cat is better than a wife because it can't talk back. It just purrs and snuggles up to you. Pick it up." Castor did so, trying not to seem gingerly about it. The flat cat promptly plastered itself to Castor's shirt, fattened its shape a little to fit better the crook of the boy's arm, and changed its purr to a low throbbing which Castor could feel vibrate in his chest. He looked down and three beady little eyes stared trustfully back up at him, then closed and disappeared completely. A little sigh interrupted the purrs and the creature snuggled closer. Castor chuckled. "It is like a cat, isn't it?" "Except that it doesn't scratch. Want to buy it?

But Hock Seng doesn’t contest the foreigner’s words. He’ll put out the bounty, regardless. If the cats are allowed to stay, the workers will start rumors that Phii Oun the cheshire trickster spirit has caused the calamity. The devil cats flicker closer. Calico and ginger, black as night—all of them fading in and out of view as their bodies take on the colors of their surroundings. They shade red as they dip into the blood pool.  Hock Seng has heard that cheshires were supposedly created by a calorie executive—some PurCal or AgriGen man, most likely—for a daughter’s birthday. A party favor for when the little princess turned as old as Lewis Carroll’s Alice.  The child guests took their new pets home where they mated with natural felines, and within twenty years, the devil cats were on every continent and Felis domesticus was gone from the face of the world, replaced by a genetic string that bred true ninety-eight percent of the time. The Green Headbands in Malaya hated Chinese people and cheshires equally, but as far as Hock Seng knows, the devil cats still thrive there. 

Drat. Daisy pulled back with a frown. She felt guilty that she had enjoyed the kiss so little. And it made her feel even worse when it appeared Llandrindon had enjoyed it quite a lot. “My dear Miss Bowman,” Llandrindon murmured flirtatiously. “You didn’t tell me you tasted so sweet.” He reached for her again, and Daisy danced backward with a little yelp. “My lord, control yourself!” “I cannot.” He pursued her slowly around the fountain until they resembled a pair of circling cats. Suddenly he made a dash for her, catching at the sleeve of her gown. Daisy pushed hard at him and twisted away, feeling the soft white muslin rip an inch or two at the shoulder seam. There was a loud splash and a splatter of water drops. Daisy stood blinking at the empty spot where Llandrindon had been, and then covered her eyes with her hands as if that would somehow make the entire situation go away. “My lord?” she asked gingerly. “Did you… did you just fall into the fountain?” “No,” came his sour reply. “You pushed me into the fountain.” “It was entirely unintentional, I assure you.” Daisy forced herself to look at him. Llandrindon rose to his feet, water streaming from his hair and clothes, his coat pockets filled to the brim. It appeared the dip in the fountain had cooled his passions considerably. He glowered at her in affronted silence. Suddenly his eyes widened, and he reached into one of his water-laden coat pockets. A tiny frog leaped from the pocket and returned to the fountain with a quiet plunk. Daisy tried to choke back her amusement, but the harder she tried the worse it became, until she finally burst out laughing. “I’m sorry,” she gasped, clapping her hands over her mouth, while irrepressible giggles slipped out. “I’m so— oh dear—” And she bent over laughing until tears came to her eyes. The tension between them disappeared as Llandrin don began to smile reluctantly. He stepped from the fountain, dripping from every surface. “I believe when you kiss the toad,” he said dryly, “he is supposed to turn into a prince. Unfortunately in my case it doesn’t seem to have worked.” Daisy felt a rush of sympathy and kindness, even as she snorted with a few last giggles. Approaching him carefully, she placed her small hands on either side of his wet face and pressed a friendly, fleeting kiss on his lips. His eyes widened at the gesture. “You are someone’s handsome prince,” Daisy said, smiling at him apologetically. “Just not mine. But when the right woman finds you… how lucky she’ll be.

Oh, I knew very well,’ I said, thinking back to Flasher, my childhood terrier, and the large ginger cat which used to live in the kitchen and whose death had left our cook sobbing and shaking in her Windsor chair for two days while the family dined off ham sandwiches and apples. Flasher’s death had been the end of childhood for me and even that was as nothing compared with the loss of Bunty. For Bunty, quite simply, was the dog of my life.

Dev was his name, and he was secretary to the prince Siddhartha, the man who would become Buddha. He had watched with envy as the young prince lived the life of luxury in his fine palace. He had watched with scorn as the royal one then gave it all up to live like a hermit in the forest. Then, as the Buddha gained his enlightenment under the Bo tree and began preaching the Way for all people to escape suffering, Dev grew respectful of him and stopped watching.  He joined the assembly of the World Honoured One, and sought out his special favour. And when this was not granted, when he was told that all men were equal and no one should hold court over another, his arrogance had bested him and he left the company of monks forever. To find his own truth, he said, but the only truth he found was in the arms of a woman – a beautiful but scheming witch named Rashila.

First, the ongoing chaos, the lifelong preference for busyness and ear-splitting volume: who wouldn’t rather drown out that inner vein of self-hatred? Who wouldn’t rather try to outrun it? Who wouldn’t simply turn the knob on the stereo and let the music drown it out? Well, maybe some people wouldn’t. Maybe some people would stoop down to pet it like a stray cat, pick it up, learn about it. Those people are psychological miracles. I, however, chose to outrun and overstuff my life to avoid the darkness. No wonder silence terrified me. No wonder I ran from activity to activity. That day at the Tunnels I was essentially unarmed: no noise, no activity, no ear-splitting volume. Just the water, the coral, my son’s small sweet hand. And so I began to peer into the darkness, that plunging sense of deep inadequacy. It’s always been there. Frankly, I didn’t know other people didn’t have it. I thought that at the center of all of us was black liquid self-loathing, and that’s why we did everything we did—that’s why some people become workaholics and some people eat and some people drink and some people have sex with strangers. To avoid that dark sludge of self-loathing at the center of all of us. As I started to talk about this, though, gingerly at first, and then with increasing vulnerability, I realized that not everyone feels this thing I feel. Some people, apparently, feel solid and loved and secure, in their most inside, secret parts. WHAT?

Fandom takes care of my cat when I go on vacation. I sit in the waiting room to take fandom home after wisdom teeth removals. Fandom comes to get me at LAX in the middle of the night when my flight is delayed for eight hours and my luggage has been sent to Australia by mistake. I bring Liquid Plummer to fandom when its toilet explodes. Fandom brings me ginger cookies and sits with me on my stoop when I stupidly lock myself out of my apartment. Fandom, friendom, and familydom all run on a gradient line in my brain.

The theme of this exhibition is folk art, and the building, which is usually a typical white-cube space, has been dressed up to look like a circus. The walls are covered in strange murals; level with my head are alligators eating trapeze artists who are, in turn, eating small alligators. In large display cases are arrangements by the famous Victorian taxidermist and artist, Walter Potter. There's a feast being had by little ginger kittens that look like they were once---before dying and being stuffed with hay and then seated on miniature dining chairs and put in front of tiny cakes, pots of tea, and samovars---from the same litter. Their eyes are beautiful, black, glistening marbles. Next to the cat feast is another Walter Potter---rabbits diligently working at desks in a miniature classroom. It's thrilling seeing these works. I've known them for years; I studied them for my A-levels. In photographs, they seem clean and unreal. Up close, I can see the little dimples in the animals' skin where their muscles used to attach; I can smell the tiny, microscopic traces of hundred-year-old-blood inside them.

What’s the nastiest thing in the world, for example? Personally, I’d say poop is probably the most horrible thing in the world. But, hey, if there was no poop then all the food you’d ever eaten would still be inside your body, sitting there, gassy and rotting, and washing about your insides. You’d look like a politician!

Now, I don’t know if you know this or not, but unlike humans, cats prefer their second dinner to their first dinner. That’s why they always yowl for more food even when you’ve already fed them. In fact, the only thing they prefer to a second dinner is a third breakfast. Of course, they never eat lunch.

Rodney and Janice were … Wait for it … Can you guess? No, not vampires! What is it with everyone and vampires these days? Get over the vampires thing already, it’s so last season. No, Rodney and Janice Burringo were witches!

But before she could press her nose to the button, Rodney Burringo came flying out of his apartment on his fastest broomstick. ‘Kill!’ he yelled, and pointed an evil finger at the lift. The kill spell, which all witches have at their disposal, left his dirty fingernail and travelled down the corridor at high speed. It passed the broken and smouldering apartment door as Minnie pushed the >|< button with her nose. It passed the little old lady as the elevator doors began to close. It reached the elevator doors just after they had closed. Then it bounced off the reflection of the elevator doors and started on its journey back along the corridor just as the little old lady said, ‘Oh hello, Mr Burringo. Did you—’ But that was as far as she got because that is as far as the kill spell got. It hit the little old lady square in the back, and before Rodney Burringo could cover his eyes and mouth, the little old lady exploded all over the corridor. Splat. Gulp. ‘What was that ‘orrible noise?’ said Minnie. ‘No idea,’ said Major.

But the most difficult part was getting rid of the rugby balls which Ginger had turned the Burringos into. Initially, Major took them to a local rugby club, but after a while he got a phone call saying he had to pick them up again. ‘They keep saying, “OUCH!” every time we kick them,’ said the club captain. ‘It’s most off-putting.’ Then Ginger tried donating them to a local school, but again they were handed back. ‘They complain when we land on them in the mud,’ said one of the teachers. ‘And they do it in the foulest language. I really cannot have our pupils exposed to such crassness.’ Finally, Minnie had a bright idea which the other three cats agreed couldn’t be beat. They donated the balls to the Try, Try and Try Again Rugby School for the Deaf. There at last the balls were happily accepted, and as far as anyone knows, there they are still kicked and thrown and jumped on in the mud on a daily basis. And just as long as no one ever rubs them three times anticlockwise in a rainstorm while saying, ‘Catch these balls, then kick your bum, this magic shall be undone’, there they will stay forever.

Aaaaagh,’ screamed Janice in a high-pitched wail, not unlike Lady Gaga in a blender.

introduced to the Wilkinses’ twenty-six children, who stood and introduced themselves in turn. Their names were Annabel, Bartholemew Jnr, Camilla, Diana, Edward, Frederick, Giles, Hubert, India, Jemima, Katharine, Lucinda, Margaret, Nigella, Oscar, Primrose, Quentin, Rupert, St John, Tamara, Ursula, Virginia, William, Xaviera, Yolanda, and Zara.

Don’t mess with the Min, yo! Not even from the back row! When the Min is miaowing, You should be bowing, Or you’ll get a scratch on your chin, yo!

Have you ever seen a blizzard? It’s like the heaviest windstorm you’ll ever see combined with the heaviest snow you’ll ever see. A snowstorm, you could call it. In fact, you could probably replace the word ‘blizzard’ with the word ‘snowstorm’ in most situations and no one would ever notice. Unless, of course, you’re playing Scrabble, in which case I want to know where the second ‘Z’ came from in the first place.

Like a cat outta hell.

You told that fat pig in there that a huge, big monster was out there.’ ‘How rude!’ said Mildred, who’d started listening again. ‘Beryl, that cat called you fat, did you hear?

But Tuck was already snoring, deep in dreams which, given his tenuous grasp on reality at the best of time, are ideally left undescribed.

Ooh,’ said Tuck, pointing at the shiny doors. ‘What are those?’ Now, Ginger was a pretty smart cat as you might have guessed. This was why the Burringos had got her, after all. But she also had a sharp tongue, and unfortunately for her, this sharp tongue sometimes acted before her brain did. ‘It’s a rocket ship. You go to the moon in it. What do you think it is, you moron? It’s a lift.’ ‘The moon!’ said Tuck, his eyes flashing green as they picked up the reflection of an old curry stain in the carpet. ‘I want to go to the moon!’ ‘I was joking,’ said Ginger, who despite having four legs still couldn’t actually kick herself.

Meanwhile, back at the milliner’s, Terrence the Topper now had six banana skins stuck up his brim. What? Oh, I’m so sorry, completely wrong story!

I once had a little friend called Bertie. Bertie ate a spoon, He died too soon, They put him in a rocket ship and sent him to the moon.

A BIT WITH A BAZOOKA

This is a book after all, not a video game. Easier on the thumbs,

When a fox running at full hunting speed trips in a forest in the middle of the night, does it make a sound? Yes, it blooming well does. It goes bang, crash, wallop, cacrumble, snap, crump, crump, caproomph - crash, tinkle-tinkle boomph!!! Bang. Clatter-clatter bump.

the trouble with nice dreams is that you have to wake up from them. Horrible dreams are much better, and nightmares are best. Then you wake up and think, ‘Phew! Thank goodness I didn’t really steal a shark from the aquarium and put it in my teacher’s bath and get double detention. Life is sweet after all!

find. Henry said she lived right across the hall.” Chapter 14 “So, this is the scene of the crime,” Ida said as they pulled up in front of an old Victorian. From outward appearances, it was hard to imagine that something sinister had happened inside. It was nicely kept, with off-white siding and purple trim. “Looks like a birthday cake,” Ruth said as they walked up the steps toward the purple door. She opened the door to reveal a small entryway. A set of stairs loomed in front of them. Old-fashioned green flowered wallpaper papered the walls. The floor was hardwood, scuffed from years of wear. To the right was a solid oak door with the number Two on it. “According to the case files, Rosa and Henry lived at number two.” Nans gestured toward the door on the other side of the hall which had a number One. “So this one must be Mrs. Pettigrew.” Ruth was standing closest to the door, so she knocked. “Who is it?” A voice drifted out almost before the knock stopped echoing. Clearly, Mrs. Pettigrew kept a close eye on the place and had seen them come in. “It’s the Ladies’ Detective Agency.” Nans’s voice took on an official tone. “We have some questions on a case if you’d be so kind as to answer them.” Of course, Doris Pettigrew would be thrilled to answer questions. If she was truly the busybody that it sounded like she was, she wouldn’t be able to resist the lure of gossip and finding out exactly what case the ladies were referring to. Lexy heard a series of locks clicking and chains sliding, and then the door cracked and a rheumy blue eye appeared. “Do you have any credentials?” “Of course.” Nans shoved a business card at her. It was in a laminate case, so it resembled an official badge of some sort. Doris snatched the card and pulled it inside. It took her a few seconds, but Nans’s card must have passed muster because the door opened and Doris said, “Come in.” Ida went in first. “Oh, this is… unusual.” Lexy peered over Ida’s head. She couldn’t be sure exactly what Ida thought was unusual. There were so many things. It could have been the giant four-foot-tall dolls that stood around the edge of the room. Or it might have been the knitted afghans that covered every surface. Or maybe it was the stuffed animals that were sitting on the couch as if holding a conversation. Then again, it might have been the herd of cats that was sniffing around Ida’s ankles. Doris handed the card back to Nans. “I’m Doris Pettigrew, by the way.” They all introduced themselves, and Doris gestured toward the living room for them to sit. Ida gingerly plucked a large pink elephant off the sofa and put it on the floor then took its place. A black cat immediately jumped into her lap. The rest of the ladies followed her lead, moving dolls aside, disturbing stuffed animals, and pushing cats out of their laps. Lexy sat in the only chair not occupied by a stuffed animal. The smell of mothballs wafted up as the rough wool of the crocheted granny square pillow irritated her arm. Achoo! Helen sneezed and pushed the fluffy tail of a white Persian out of her face.

As if to prove the point, a large ginger tabby cat appeared and made a growling noise, baring its sharp teeth. “Fucking feed me,” came a demonic voice. I jerked and glanced from the cat to Nanna.  She shrugged. “Cissy has such a foul mouth, be warned.

A huge ginger cat padded with indifference from the other room, paused in the open doorway, sniffed the air, then meowed lazily before it strolled over at a snail's pace. Telling me in no uncertain terms that it wasn't coming because I wanted it to, and it wasn't interested, not really, but seeing as I was here it would make sure I was unworthy of its attention and it would show me and I should be grateful.

SANDSTORM—pale ginger she-cat

the dark-green laundry room, domain of Diana’s foul-tempered ginger cat called Marmalade,

It’s too empty. Too lonely. No one to see, nothing to do. But he hadn’t told her no. As the first weeks and months had passed, Christina had come to cherish the solitude and the silence, the slant of late-afternoon sun that warmed the floorboards where her ginger cat slept.

That fall, they moved in a greyhound named Target, a lapdog named Ginger, the four cats, and the birds. They threw out all their artificial plants and put live plants in every room. Staff members brought their kids to hang out after school; friends and family put in a garden at the back of the home and a playground for the kids. It was shock therapy.

Lying on top of the weird, spiky shapes were several long, ginger cat hairs.

Once both male canines had collected enough smell samples from Sabrina's crotch/my dinner, we stopped laughing and managed to get inside the apartment. It was a two-room apartment on the ground floor and it was quite dark inside, with the curtains closed and only one or two lamps turned on in the entire place. Two big cats, two big dogs and two Jewish guys were sitting in the living room. There were a variety of products scattered all over the place. The room was a mess, not necessarily caused by the pets. They told us that they also have two more large cats at home in Belgium. Mario introduced us to Tom Titelany: the short, dark-haired guy who had opened the door and was the owner of the Dogue de Bordeaux. The other guy, sitting in the dark, a bit taller and skinnier with brighter skin, and brighter hair, and much brighter eyes, called Adam Maraudin, was the owner of the two large cats and the Bull Terrier jumping around. There was a huge serpent tattoo winding around Adam's shoulder, and though his tank top only revealed part of the design, it was clear that this was not an ordinary tattoo, it seemed to me to be of Far-Eastern origin or Thai. They then introduced us to Adam's girlfriend, the British Rachel Conarts, whom Adam called Shifra for some reason. She had ginger hair and was as tall as Adam, taller than Tom. There was a big bag of scuba diving kit in the living room and, when I asked them about it, they told me that Shifra and Adam had first met in Thailand, where they had been scuba diving. One of them was called Tom, the same as my name, and the other one was called Adam, coincidentally the same as my middle name. Coincidence? I don’t know.

Sampson held out a pair of latex gloves to Steele, who placed his coffee down, then pulled them onto his hands. Gingerly, he reached into the box and moved the dead cat until we could read the name tag. Max. Somehow, my stalker had managed to find someone's pet cat called Max with fur in a soft shade of gray all too similar to Steele's eyes. Or his name.

A suspicion, a doubt, a jealousy grew in my mind, which turned the hairs on my head to filthy snakes, as though my thoughts hissed and spat on my scalp. My bride’s breath soured, stank in the grey bags of my lungs. I’m foul mouthed now, foul tongued, yellow fanged. There are bullet tears in my eyes. Are you terrified? Be terrified. It’s you I love, perfect man, Greek God, my own; but I know you’ll go, betray me, stray from home. So better by far for me if you were stone. I glanced at a buzzing bee, a dull grey pebble fell to the ground. I glanced at a singing bird, a handful of dusty gravel spattered down. I looked at a ginger cat, a housebrick shattered a bowl of milk. I looked at a snuffling pig, a boulder rolled in a heap of shit. I stared in the mirror. Love gone bad showed me a Gorgon. I stared at a dragon. Fire spewed from the mouth of a mountain. And here you come with a shield for a heart and a sword for a tongue and your girls, your girls. Wasn’t I beautiful? Wasn’t I fragrant and young? Look at me now. - Medusa by Carol Ann Duffy -

Remembering what One-eye had told him, he began to speak. “Spirits of StarClan, you know every cat by name. I ask you now to take away the name from the cat you see before you, for it no longer stands for what she is.” He paused and saw the young ginger-and-white she-cat shiver, as she waited, nameless, before StarClan. Firestar hoped she would like the name he had chosen for her; he had thought hard before he was sure he had gotten it right. “By my authority as Clan leader,” Firestar announced, “and with the approval of our warrior ancestors, I give this cat a new name. From this moment she will be known as Brightheart, for though her body has been gravely injured, we honor her brave spirit and the light that shines on within her.

My son, I’ve taught you better than this. It’s not what happens to us in life that matters. It’s how we react to it that does. It’s what we have control over.

When people honor who and how they are, everything goes more smoothly, for them and everyone else around them.

Stalking from the President's House towards the Servants' Lodge was an enormous cat, as broad as he was tall, with ginger hair fluffed out in a great halo. His expression was one of angry disdain. He placed his paws with great care. It was not that the ground actually trembled as he walked, but his ponderous gate suggested that he was distributing his weight with due regard for the fragility of the earth's crust.

warming tale with a message of hope’ Daily Mail ‘An instantly bestselling memoir that, beside its heart-warming tale of their friendship, offers an insight into the injustice of life on the streets that’s by turns frustrating and life-affirming.’ The Times The moving, uplifting true story of an unlikely friendship between a man on the streets and the ginger cat who adopts him and helps him heal

He was curled on the sill of the open window, in a dressing-gown, with The Times on his knee a cigarette between his lips, and was trimming his nails in a thoughtful leisurely way, as though he had world and time enough at his disposal. At the other side of the casement, come from goodness knew where, was a large ginger cat, engaged in thoroughly licking one fore-paw before applying it to the back of its ear. The two sleek animals, delicately self-absorbed, sat on in a mandarin-like calm till the human one, with the restlessness of inferiority, lifted his eyes from his task, caught sight of Harriet and said "Hey!"--whereupon the cat rose up, affronted, and leapt out of sight.

Dear Me, Talk about getting the wind knocked out of your sails when your best friend tells you you’re turning into a grumpy hermit. She told me that at breakfast today, and I was in denial until I talked to Chase, that little fucker. I made myself happy by soaking his ass five times before lunch. I did some soul searching, and I don’t think I’m depressed, but I do think I’m becoming too comfortable with being by myself. I’m really beginning to enjoy the company of cats more than people, and that’s probably not a good thing. Sprout and Ginger are so cute right now. Ginger’s cleaning Sprout’s head, and he’s smiling. Sometimes he’ll…yeah, I really need to get out more. I think life would be simpler if people acted more like cats. Like if someone is prattling on about something I don’t care about and I pop them in the forehead, they’d understand to walk away just like a cat does. A simple hiss conveys so much. I will attempt to gradually release myself back into a social environment. Me

The basket was opened, and a ginger head emerged resentfully.

St John had been sitting in the back garden twizzling a pencil, on the end of which a russet deposit was impaled, which had been left on the lawn by Marmaduke, next door’s ginger cat. His father had wandered in to the garden and seen St John mesmerised by the twirling mahogany baton. “What are you doing son?” he asked. “Toasting a witch”, St John replied.

WARRIORS (toms and she-cats without kits) WHITESTORM—big white tom APPRENTICE, BRIGHTPAW DARKSTRIPE—sleek black-and-gray tabby tom APPRENTICE, FERNPAW FROSTFUR—beautiful white coat and blue eyes BRINDLEFACE—pretty tabby LONGTAIL—pale tabby tom with dark black stripes APPRENTICE, SWIFTPAW MOUSEFUR—small dusky brown she-cat APPRENTICE, THORNPAW BRACKENFUR—golden brown tabby tom DUSTPELT—dark brown tabby tom APPRENTICE, ASHPAW SANDSTORM—pale ginger she-cat APPRENTICES (more than six moons old, in training to become warriors) SANDSTORM—pale ginger she-cat SWIFTPAW—black-and-white tom CLOUDPAW—long-haired white tom BRIGHTPAW—she-cat, white with ginger splotches THORNPAW—golden brown tabby tom FERNPAW—pale gray (with darker flecks) she-cat, pale green eyes ASHPAW—pale gray (with darker flecks) tom, dark blue eyes

rid of the rugby balls which Ginger had turned the Burringos into. Initially, Major took them to a local rugby club, but after a while he got a phone call saying he had to pick them up again. ‘They keep saying, “OUCH!” every time we kick them,’ said the club captain. ‘It’s most off-putting.

This time Janice grabbed him and gave him a smack on his haunch with the palm of her hand. Ouch! Can you imagine how painful it is for a cat to be hit by something as big as a witch? That would be like a huge giant slapping you across the ribs with a hand as big as a car. Ouch, ow, ow.

Picking the lock that night was far easier than Tuck had imagined. For a physically-intelligent animal like him, anything which involved using his various body parts to do different things at the same time comes very easily. That is why I will never have it said that Tuck is stupid. Intellectually-challenged, perhaps; academically lacking, definitely; but stupid, no. Because, physically, Tuck was a genius. Do remember, dear reader, everyone’s good at something, and just because it’s not the same thing as you, doesn’t mean that they’re smarter or dumber than you are. Truly stupid beings are as rare as truly ugly ones, and can normally be identified by the fact they use words like ‘stupid,’ or ‘ugly’ to describe anyone.

She thought of Flametail, her shy, sweet-tempered ginger kit, always eager to help his Clanmates, who’d grown to be a medicine cat and then drowned in icy waters; of Dawnpelt, who’d as a kit been fierce and playful by turns, who’d left ShadowClan for the Kin and been murdered by Darktail. And of stubborn, good-hearted Tigerstar. Her kits meant everything to her, too, and now Tigerstar was the only one left.

Brightheart, a pretty white she-cat with ginger patches on her fur like fallen leaves, had

Her whole body tenses, heaves, tries to scream, and her eyes burn with tears of frustration and terror. In the moonlit shadows of her bedroom, she hears a cat begin to purr. Kara runs, shaking, out into the short corridor. The cats are black and white, ginger and gray, fat and starved. They sit on tables, on chairs, on tatami mats. One sits so still beside a lamp that it looks carved from wood. She wants her father, wants to go into his room and wake him, but three of them sit, barring his door. As one, they follow her with their eyes as Kara weaves through the living room. As one, they hiss. As one, they begin to follow, stalking her.

I had a little ginger cat. I found him in a field, stolen from his mother, a real wild cat. He was two weeks old, maybe a little more, but he already knew how to scratch and bite. I fed him and petted him and took him home. He became the sweetest cat. Once, he hid in the sleeve of a visitor’s coat. He was the most polite creature, a real prince. When we came home in the middle of the night, he would come greet us, his eyes all sleepy. Then he’d go back to sleep in our bed. One time the door was closed to our bedroom—he tried to open it, he pushed it with his behind, and he got angry and he made a beautiful noise. He shunned us for a week. He was terrified of the vacuum cleaner. He was really a cowardly cat, defenseless, a poet cat. Once we brought him a toy mouse and he hid under the cabinet. We wanted him to experience the outside world. We put him on the pavement right outside the window. He was so scared. There were pigeons all around and he was frightened of pigeons. He meowed with despair, pressed against the wall. All animals and all other cats were strange creatures that he mistrusted or enemies that he feared. He was only happy with us. We were his family. He thought we were cats and cats were something else. But still, one day, he went out on his own. The big dog next door killed him. He was lying there like a cat doll, a puppet ripped open with an eye gouged out and a paw torn off, like a stuffed animal damaged by a sadistic child. I had a dream about him. He was in the fireplace, lying on the embers. Marie was surprised he didn’t burn. I said, “Cat’s don’t burn. They’re fireproof.” He came out of the fireplace, meowing in a cloud of smoke. But it wasn’t him—it was another cat, ugly and fat and female. Like his mother, the wildcat. He looked like Marguerite.

Oh for heaven’s sake,” she snapped, now directing her wand at a dustpan, which hopped off the sideboard and started skating across the floor, scooping up the potatoes. “Those two!” she burst out savagely, now pulling pots and pans out of a cupboard, and Harry knew she meant Fred and George. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to them, I really don’t. No ambition, unless you count making as much trouble as they possibly can. . . .” Mrs. Weasley slammed a large copper saucepan down on the kitchen table and began to wave her wand around inside it. A creamy sauce poured from the wand-tip as she stirred. “It’s not as though they haven’t got brains,” she continued irritably, taking the saucepan over to the stove and lighting it with a further poke of her wand, “but they’re wasting them, and unless they pull themselves together soon, they’ll be in real trouble. I’ve had more owls from Hogwarts about them than the rest put together. If they carry on the way they’re going, they’ll end up in front of the Improper Use of Magic Office.” Mrs. Weasley jabbed her wand at the cutlery drawer, which shot open. Harry and Ron both jumped out of the way as several knives soared out of it, flew across the kitchen, and began chopping the potatoes, which had just been tipped back into the sink by the dustpan. “I don’t know where we went wrong with them,” said Mrs. Weasley, putting down her wand and starting to pull out still more saucepans. “It’s been the same for years, one thing after another, and they won’t listen to — OH NOT AGAIN!” She had picked up her wand from the table, and it had emitted a loud squeak and turned into a giant rubber mouse. “One of their fake wands again!” she shouted. “How many times have I told them not to leave them lying around?” She grabbed her real wand and turned around to find that the sauce on the stove was smoking. “C’mon,” Ron said hurriedly to Harry, seizing a handful of cutlery from the open drawer, “let’s go and help Bill and Charlie.” They left Mrs. Weasley and headed out the back door into the yard. They had only gone a few paces when Hermione’s bandy-legged ginger cat, Crookshanks, came pelting out of the garden, bottlebrush tail held high in the air, chasing what looked like a muddy potato on legs. Harry recognized it instantly as a gnome. Barely ten inches

kit—and ginger, like the she-cat beside him. The she-cat nodded to her. “I’m Furze,” she said, “and this is my kit, Creek.

two young ginger-and-white she-cats sharing a thrush a tail-length away. “They’re Flurry and Sparrow. Hawk’s their mother.