The outside cat goes by the name of Wotsit not that she knows this. She was named after the cheesy snack of that same nomenclature produced by Walkers because she spent her formative months at the rear door in an empty Wotsit box. Well you have to give them some sort of a name to keep the vet's assistant happy. I suppose that I could have adopted the Beckamesque principle of naming, but Stable or Potting Shed would be even sillier names for a cat methinks.
Whilst Wotsit does like her handfuls of dried cat food she also likes the odd snack of fresh warm meat. Well any cat with an ounce of self respect has to keep its hunting skills up to the mark. Today's tiffin was a juvenile rabbit. There was nothing subtle about how she devoured this repast. The soft grey fur was ripped open to expose the pink skin and pinker entrails. She tugged at the flesh, purring with the happiness of a filling stomach. The soft bones gave little resistance to her glistening incisors. Some fur and a small white bobtail was all that remained of the subject of her mastications, that together with a few drying smears of blood on her face. She seemed content. The rabbit less so.
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