My cats, Socks and Tink? Where do I start?

In cat years they're 37, mentally they're about 4.

They're brother and sister. Socks, the boy, is the hunter, the aloof one, sits on no one's lap but mine (when, and only when, he deems it necessary). Tink, is the girl, she's petite, a bit daft, scared of her own shadow, a total flirt (especially with the male hoomins) and sleeps on my pillow every night.

They wake me up at stupid o'clock, claw at me for food, cover everything in fur or mud, often both. They ignore the scratching post in favour of the coffee table legs and they fight. Noisily. In the middle of the night.

Socks drags animals through the cat flap, he eats half of his prey and leaves the rest for me to find.

Tink brings in the teeniest tiniest mice, drops them on the carpet, looks at me for approval and then trots off for a nap (hunting is tiring work), leaving me to play the game of 'catch and release'.

They have ruined countless clothes with their claws and worry me silly by disappearing for hours in the summer evenings.

But I love them, they make me laugh, calm me down, comfort me when I cry. They make my house a home. Nothing beats a cat curled up on your lap asleep and purring.

Socks once brought a weasel into the dining room, this little thing was fierce, it screamed and made a really, REALLY bad smell. This thing looked me straight in the eye as if to say 'touch me and I'll take your arm off'. I didn't fancy my chances. Out came the colander and the spare oven gloves (kept especially for occasions such as these) - trapped it, slid a magazine underneath (oven gloves on throughout) and set it down outside. Before running away he turned, sat up on it's back legs, let out a high pitched scream and looked at me - with his eyes he said 'sleep with one eye open' and was gone.

The smell lingered for ages.

Yep, I love my cats.