In my early days I was known as The Cemetery Cat. Ghoulish? Not a bit of it. It was home. I was born there so didn't know anywhere else. Gravestones, headstones, it was all the same to me, a slab to call my own. The dead centre of town. The company was a bit dull but I didn't notice until my mate Stan, who got out and about and was pretty streetwise, invited me along one moonlight night to check out the neighbourhood. Come on, he coaxed, you'll see a whole other side of life - there are real live people out there. People who live and party and people who love cats. Alright, some of them like dogs, but we'll give those a miss. So I jumped down off Ian McTaverty's piece of granite and followed Stan, up and over the wall into the street. In the distance I could see the twinkle of lights. Those are houses, said Stan knowingly. Follow me, there's one where the kitchen window is always open...
