As a cat lover (yes, you can call me a crazy cat-girl), I’ve had felines all my life. My mother was the same way, and like her, I had more than one cat. At one time I had seven, and it was both fun and chaotic. Each one had their own personalities, but one of my favourites was a green-eyed tortoiseshell tabby. Koo-Koo had the feisty attitude of a prima donna, and proudly earned her nickname, “Bitchy-Koo”. In human terms, she’d be the leader of an all-girl gang. She may have been the smallest of my cats, but you didn’t mess with Bitchy-Koo. One of her favourite means of keeping me in line was through covert plant terrorism. Often, I’d come home to fresh kills of upended houseplants and trails of potting soil scattered across my pale-grey carpet. One year I foolishly left the house with a decorated Christmas tree, only to find its ravaged corpse prostrate on the carpet when I returned. Other times she’d climb the tree before I could catch her and gloat at me from a gap in the branches. Changing sheets? Forget it, unless you wore heavy-duty gardening gloves. She loved to burrow beneath the sheets and any attempt to touch them resulted in needle-sharp claws that clamped into your flesh like fish hooks. She ruled the roost for fifteen years, and I miss my Bitchy-Koo her every day.