[Anonymouse]

I fondly remember Tibby, my first pet. Our side of Keswick Street used to be very old houses, and as a result they often had mice. My half-sisters virtually demanded we get a cat to sort them out.
Mum, we knew, wasn't keen. "Ooh, I don't want a cat - they rub up against your legs!"
But Dad, being practically-minded back then, retorted, "Well, we'll just have to have the bloody mice, then!"
And so we got a kitten. Our neighbour's cat across the street had just had kittens, and I picked out a ginger tom. His mum must've been an excellent teacher, as he started tackling the mice even as a kitten. He was ruthless. They were wiped out quickly.
He was a no-nonsense cat; a large Alsatian awoke him from his snooze in the sun. One swipe from his paw and you couldn't see the dog for dust! He just washed his ears and snuggled down again!
One time, though, he disproved the 'single braincell' theory (of which I hadn't heard as a kid). To explain: at about 3:30 in the morning Mum was woken up by a THUMP sound. She was petrified. What was it?
Then again.
A third time - and this time she saw the cause. I really wish I'd been awake to see this. A mouse had taken refuge - it thought - in one of my Dad's work boots. Tibby was grabbing the boot in his paws and throwing it into the air, hence the THUMP!
"What a smart cat!" I thought - in between hysterical laughter!
Yes, he did get the mouse out - but unusually for a cat, if he caught a mouse he wouldn't leave any part of it as look-what-I-did-aren't-I-clever, as most cats do. No, he scoffed the lot.
But when we moved in 1976 (compulsory purchase order, though in fact Mum made a profit since, what with inflation, she got more for the house than she'd originally paid for it), Tibby didn't like the move. Strange cats, fewer queens (we had him done when there was a rash of ginger kittens, but that didn't stop him!) - and, in these new houses of breezeblock rather than brick (they were supposed to be temporary to deal with the housing crisis, but they're still there and people are still living in them, proving that there's nothing so permanent as a temporary emergency), no mice.
He went back to Keswick Street. We looked for him, found him, took him back. He went again after a while. Finding him took longer this time. We took some traditional measures. They worked...we thought.
He went back a third time, and this time we didn't find him. I conceded reluctantly that his old haunt was where he wanted to be, and went home. I agreed with him, though - I never really felt the new estate was home.
I still miss him.
I miss Puss, too (not her real name; we never did find that out. Didn't matter - she knew who she was). I first met her around 3am after a good night at Sparrow's, wrecked on cider of various sorts. Very hard to see at night, being a tortie. She invited herself in when I was in no fit state to deal with her.
After a while she adopted us, my Mum proving resistant at first - especially given her flat meow, which sounded like a baby. But after she passed, Mum confessed she missed that meow. One time we tried treating her for furballs; we had a cod liver oil concoction. As per advice, I smeared some on her paw, so she'd lick it off.
Nuh-uh! She ran outside and tried to shake it off her paw! I was in hysterics, it was so funny!
And Tigger - oh, Tigger! Tricolour tortie, such a character as a kitten. She was almost named Spot, in tribute to Data's moggy, but my youngest niece said she was like Tigger. The name stuck.
As is typical for me, she was not a conventional cat. To wit, her reaction to catnip. Most cats chill, some become playful.
Tigger? Utter maniac!
She began running at breakneck speed up and down the stairs to the flat. I tried to calm her, and she went for me!
I hid the catnip mouse toy thoroughly. Lesson learned. Never again.
I couldn't have the conventional sort of cat, could I? No, this was business as usual!
She had ear mites as a kitten; I got her some drops. Very difficult to administer - because the crafty little thing folded down her ears whenever I tried!
(I can't remember what I did to solve this, but the drops, when administered, did the trick.) One thing I did was to associate the carrier with treats before and after a vet visit, positive reinforcement (and unlike Puss, she loved cod liver oil so much she almost wouldn't leave me alone!). At one point, though, she seemed off her food. I couldn't understand it at first - until I found an empty treats sachet! Crafty beggar had been helping herself! My fault, I know, she shouldn't have been able to get at them (wish I could remember how she did).
In 2012 she was run over. I hope she didn't suffer. She was buried (with difficulty, that soil is stony and bloody hard) next to Puss.
Sometimes I wonder about adoption...