Last night, Crookshanks wouldn’t stop meowing to be let out, so I let him out. Gave him a little stroke and cuddle before he went and told him to come home soon ’cause I didn’t want to stay up all night.

He didn’t come back by 11 o’ clock, so I left a note for my mum, saying the cat was out and I went to bed.

When I woke up this morning, mum had left me a note saying that her and Pete (my step-dad) had stayed up until 2:30am and Crookshanks still hadn’t come home.

Before I left the house, I left another note for my mum, telling her to phone me when Crookshanks gets in.

I got a phonecall around 9 o’ clock. It was mum asking me when I’d let Crookshanks out (because the last time he went missing, he’d managed to get himself locked in our shed) but I’d let him out too late for him to get himself locked in a shed.

I got back home around quarter past 4. Walked in and saw my sister was crying. I thought she’d just split up with her boyfriend until I saw mum was crying too.

There are some really mean tempered old cats around here; ones that would claw your eyes out if you go too close. Other than bringing home bird heads and beating up the odd black cat (yes, Crookshanks was – unfortunately – a racist kitty), Crookshanks was a lovely tempered, sweet natured and friendly cat (although he was pretty noisy).

I suppose being hit by a car and killed instantly is preferable to having some dip*** chav from the darkest depths of Swilly torturing him (or Kira).
And you do get people like that around here; ones that kick animals or set fire to them or some other sick act.
Doesn’t make it any easier though.