The Kilkenny Cat Trilogy

By William Forde

In the year 2000, I wanted to give children in all the 30 schools in the old slave capital of Falmouth, Jamaica their own special present from the people of Mirfield, West Yorkshire. So I wrote them a special book entitled ‘The Kilkenny Cat’.

Originally intended as a single book entity, the idea came to turn the successful story into a trilogy. Between 1990 and 2005, I had visited over 2000 Yorkshire schools. I had also written and had published 30 books, which had been sold directly to schools. All £200,000 profit raised from the sales of all my published books were given to charities; some national and some local to Yorkshire. As a special ‘thank you’ to the 300 schools who had bought the most of my books over this 15-year period, a limited edition publication of the three books in the cat trilogy was produced. Consequently, only 300 sets of this trilogy were ever published.
It now greatly pleases me to make all three of these books available to the general public for the very first time through this e-book publication of the trilogy.

Between 2000 and 2003,and after Nelson Mandela had described three of my Afro-Indian-Jamaican stories as ‘wonderful', I worked with the Education minister in the Jamaican Government to develop a transatlantic pen pal project between 30 Falmouth Schools of children and 30 schools of children in Yorkshire, England. During this period, I wrote two books which were published to raise funds for Jamaican schools and to raise awareness of the area of Falmouth, Jamaica in particular.

Falmouth is an area that now depends solely on tourism for its revenue. Most of the young people of Jamaica have a dream of living a better life in either England or the USA. I therefore wanted to help reverse this emigration trend wherever possible by highlighting the positives of its own region above that of all others. I also wanted to raise the issue of racial discrimination that is practiced by the peoples of all countries across the world, whatever the color of their native skin happens to be.

‘The Kilkenny Cat’ is a trilogy about the presence and practice of all manner of discrimination. Book One deals with the theme of ‘Truth’, Book Two with ‘Justice’, and Book Three on the theme of ’Freedom’. All three books seek to show that truth, justice or freedom cannot exist in isolation, and that the only way one can experience any one of them is when one is able to experience all three.

Book One is set in the country of Ireland (the land of my birth), Book Two is set in Jamaica and Ireland (both countries I know well), with Book Three being predominantly set in Northern England (the place where I have lived for most of my life).

The trilogy is designed to show that every country on the face of the earth exercises discrimination against some of its citizens. The nature of discrimination may subtly change and vary from one country and situation to another in both shape and form, but it will always be present.

Particular forms of discrimination looked at in this trilogy include the issues of color, race, religion, age, culture, sexism, disability, homophobia, gypsies, asylum seekers, refugees and economic migrants.

These issues are looked at through the eyes of traveling cats, whose experiences mirror those of human society. Overarching all the themes of this trilogy is the issue of ‘Good’ versus ‘Evil.’

Book One is set in Ireland and serves to introduce the heroine, TKC, along with the book’s major characters in the trilogy and its most prominent themes. Book Two is set in Falmouth, Jamaica and provides the reader with a way of life that most non-Jamaicans may find strange, but which all natives to Jamaica would instantly recognize. Book Three is set in the English North and has as its backdrop, the riots that embraced this area from the 1990s onwards.

‘The Kilkenny Cat Trilogy’ is dedicated to all of the Forde family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Forde
• Release date: Aug 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476313689

William Forde

William Forde was born in Ireland and currently lives in Haworth, West Yorkshire with his wife Sheila. He is the father of five children and the author of over 60 published books and two musical plays. Approximately 20 of his books are suitable for the 7-11 year old readers while the remainder are suitable for young persons and adults. Since 2010, all of his new stories have been written for adults under his 'Tales from Portlaw' series of short stories. His website is www.fordefables.co.uk on which all his miscellaneous writings may be freely read. There are also a number of children's audio stories which can be freely heard.He is unique in the field of contemporary children's authors through the challenging emotional issues and story themes he addresses, preferring to focus upon those emotions that children and adults find most difficult to appropriately express.One of West Yorkshire's most popular children's authors, Between 1990 and 2002 his books were publicly read in over 2,000 Yorkshire school assemblies by over 800 famous names and celebrities from the realms of Royalty, Film, Stage, Screen, Politics, Church, Sport, etc. The late Princess Diana used to read his earlier books to her then young children, William and Harry and Nelson Mandela once telephoned him to praise an African story book he had written. Others who have supported his works have included three Princesses, three Prime Ministers, two Presidents and numerous Bishops of the realm. A former Chief Inspector of Schools for OFSTED described his writing to the press as 'High quality literature.' He has also written books which are suitable for adults along with a number of crossover books that are suitable for teenagers and adults.Forever at the forefront of change, at the age of 18 years, William became the youngest Youth Leader and Trade Union Shop Steward in Great Britain. In 1971, He founded Anger Management in Great Britain and freely gave his courses to the world. Within the next two years, Anger Management courses had mushroomed across the English-speaking world. During the mid-70's, he introduced Relaxation Training into H.M. Prisons and between 1970 and 1995, he worked in West Yorkshire as a Probation Officer specialising in Relaxation Training, Anger Management, Stress Management and Assertive Training Group Work.He retired early on the grounds of ill health in 1995 to further his writing career, which witnessed him working with the Minister of Youth and Culture in Jamaica to establish a trans-Atlantic pen-pal project between 32 primary schools in Falmouth, Jamaica and 32 primary schools in Yorkshire.William was awarded the MBE in the New Year's Honours List of 1995 for his services to West Yorkshire. He has never sought to materially profit from the publication of his books and writings and has allowed all profit from their sales (approx £200,000) to be given to charity. Since 2013, he was diagnosed with CLL; a terminal condition for which he is currently receiving treatment.In 2014, William had his very first 'strictly for adult' reader's novel puiblished called‘Rebecca’s Revenge'. This book was first written over twenty years ago and spans the period between the 1950s and the New Millennium. He initially refrained from having it published because of his ‘children’s author credentials and charity work’. He felt that it would have conflicted too adversely with the image which had taken a decade or more to establish with his audience and young person readership. Now, however as he approaches the final years of his life and cares less about his public image, besides no longer writing for children (only short stories for adults since 2010), he feels the time to be appropriate to publish this ‘strictly for adults only’ novel alongside the remainder of his work.In December 2016 he was diagnosed with skin cancer on his face and two weeks later he was diagnosed with High-grade Lymphoma (Richter’s Transformation from CLL). He was successfully treated during the first half of 2017 and is presently enjoying good health albeit with no effective immune system.

Book preview

The Kilkenny Cat Trilogy

By

William Forde

© William Forde, August 2012

Cover illustration by Joel Stephen Breeze, Dewsbury, West Yorkshire.

All text, characters, reproduction, manufacturing, exploitation and artwork copyright reserved by William Forde.

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Author’s Foreword

The Kilkenny Cat has been written as a trilogy. Book One deals with the theme of ‘truth’, Book Two with ‘justice’, and Book Three on the theme of ’freedom’.

All three books seek to show that truth, justice or freedom cannot exist in isolation, and that the only way one can experience any one of them is when one is able to experience all three.

Book One is set in the country of Ireland, the land of my birth, Book Two in Jamaica and Ireland, both countries I know well, with Book Three being predominantly set in Northern England; the place where I have lived for most of my life.

The trilogy is designed to show that every country on the face of the Earth exercises discrimination against some of its citizens. The nature of discrimination may subtly change and vary from one country and situation to another in both shape and form, but it will always be present in some degree for those of us who care to look.

Particular forms of discrimination looked at in this trilogy include the issues of colour, race, religion, age, culture, sexism, disability, homophobia, gypsies, asylum seekers, refugees and economic migrants.

These issues are looked at through the eyes of travelling cats, whose experiences mirror those of human society. Overarching all the themes of this trilogy is the issue of ‘Good’ versus ‘Evil’, where the terms ‘God’ and ‘Satan’ are used to denote opposing values, qualities and lifestyles.

The speech of the cat characters who come from Jamaica is distinguished from the speech used by non-Jamaican cats by changing the word ‘you’ to ‘ya’ and its linguistic associates, and no attempt has been made to replicate the patois more commonly used by many Jamaican citizens.

Book One is set in Ireland and serves to introduce the heroine, TKC, along with the book’s major characters in the trilogy and its most prominent themes. The first half of Book One is devoted to TKC’s kitten year of life. The sudden switch of content and tone in the second half of Book One to that of a more violent format has been done deliberately to sharply reflect the marked contrast between childhood and adult years: between being protected in a family setting by loving parents, to having to fend for oneself in a hostile environment of rampant discrimination, desolation and destruction.

Book Two’s setting begins in Falmouth, Jamaica and provides the reader with a way of life that most non-Jamaicans may find strange, but which all natives to Jamaica would instantly recognise. Book Two continues to examine the issues of discrimination that is practiced in that country and particularly homophobia and sexism. Mixed partnerships between black and white couples are also looked at in the context of the story. The second half of Book Two is set back in Ireland.

Book Three is set in the English North and has as its backdrop, the riots that embraced this area from the 1990s onwards. Recent riots all around the country merely reflect how deeply rooted the 'gang culture' of Great Britain has since become.

My heartfelt appreciation is given to the artist Joel Stephen Breeze for the cover of all three books. I also extend my thanks to ‘cat expert’ Silvia Williamson for the invaluable information she gave me at the research stage of this trilogy.

My eternal gratitude, however, is reserved for my deceased parents, Paddy and Mary Forde, all of the Forde and Fanning family, and the Brennan family of Kilkenny, Ireland; all of whom provided the inspiration for this book’s setting.

By better understanding how we became who we are, we can more easily understand the nature of the person we have become.

William Forde

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‘The Kilkenny Cat’

Book One: ‘Truth’

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Dedicated to my father, Paddy Forde)

Born 21-03-1916 : Died 27-03-1991

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‘TKC is Born’

TKC was born in the most unfavourable of circumstances, during the cold, early-morning hours of a snowy February in the year 2,000 A.D.

At the time of TKC’s birth, her mother was homeless, hungry and close to death.

It had been snowing heavily for six hours and the sudden drop in temperature, which had been ushered in beneath the cloak of the fierce North wind, signalled to the heavily pregnant cat that the snowfall would be quickly followed by a period of severe frost.

Having been forewarned about the coldness of Irish winters, TKC’s mother was only too well aware of the dangers of giving birth outdoors, especially in the middle of a snowstorm.

She knew that winter kittens born outdoors usually died. The mother-to-be had spent the previous three days frantically searching for somewhere safe and warm indoors. However, each time she thought that she had found somewhere suitable to give birth, someone came along and chased her away.

As the moment to give birth drew closer, TKC’s mother grew more fearful. It had been almost four days since she had last eaten and, having travelled far, she was close to collapse and too weak to travel much farther.

All of the elements of nature seemed to be against her. The weight of the three kittens inside her was making her passage through the thick blanket of snow that covered the ground extremely difficult.

With her final drop of energy almost spent and her bucket of hope now empty, every sinew and aching muscle of her body seemed to be shouting at her to stop and have a rest.

Having spent earlier years in much warmer climates, where snow is as rare as a two-tailed dog, the biting cold of the icy North wind had quickly penetrated her three layers of fur. The wind was gnawing through her skeletal bones with the ferocity of barbed wire pressed tightly against tender flesh.

It would have been so easy to stop, so natural to give way to a force of nature greater than oneself, so inviting to surrender up the life within in exchange for instant death and a speedy end to all earthly pain.

However, TKC’s mother was no quitter. She had come too far to let go of the reins of life until she had reached her final destination.

For another thirty minutes, she plodded on slowly, fighting to move forward against the might of the windswept snow.

Blinded by the force of the oncoming snow blizzard, she was driven onwards only by the sheer determination of motherly love, and the desire to give her three unborn kittens the chance of life.

At that precise moment, when her weary legs were refusing to walk another step farther, she saw a light in the distance.

Unsure as to whether the flicker of light she had seen was a star in the snow-stormed sky or the imagination of her half-opened eyes, she used what little energy she had left in an effort to move closer to it.

The light came from an oil lamp which was positioned on the inside window ledge of a nearby cottage, somewhere on the edge of County Kilkenny, Ireland.

As soon as the pregnant cat saw the cottage, a flicker of hope re-ignited itself in the shadow of her soul, giving her just enough energy to travel that few yards farther.

It had been her intention to try to make it to the cottage door, in the hope that her scratching might attract the attention of the occupants, but before she could reach the cottage door, she sank into a mound of deep, soft snow and came to an abrupt halt.

As she struggled to recapture her breath, the first of her three unborn kittens started its journey into this life. After giving birth to the first kitten, she could tell immediately that it had been born dead. It was a male kitten. Five minutes later, a second male kitten was born. This kitten was very small and died minutes after its birth.

The grief-stricken mother looked at her two dead sons, lying there in the snow. They looked so small, so very helpless. Realizing that they would never see the world, which she had fought so hard to bring them into, she began to drown in a sea of sadness.

Tears of loss flooded her snow-covered eyes as the unbearable burden of grief began to overwhelm her senses. The weight of her sorrow made her feel that her heart had been broken in two, crushing any remaining bodily resistance.

Just then, when her spirit had sunk so low, she felt a kick in the pit of her stomach as the third kitten decided to announce its imminent arrival in the only way it knew how. The sudden movement of the third unborn kitten inside her, informing her of its eagerness to taste life, jolted TKC’s mother out of her mental state of grieving madness and back to the immediate problem of the ‘here and now’.

She knew that if she did not give birth to the third kitten soon, it would die inside her womb. Yet, to give birth in the open snow would guarantee its early death. Torn between the uncertain torment of how to respond to the dire situation she faced, she looked around her in search of some protection that might serve the purpose of a kitten’s crib.

Apart from the outline of the cottage, a few garden trees and a picket fence surrounding the property, everything else was totally covered in a thick blanket of snow. Then she felt the presence of something beneath her body, something hard and round, which was buried beneath the snow.

Using her two front paws, she began to shovel away the surface snow in an attempt to get to the object beneath the winter groundsheet. TKC’s mother had discovered an empty, terracotta plant pot which had been left standing there in an upright position. The angel of mercy seemed to have answered her prayers in the shape of an old, frost-proof, earthenware pot.

Sensing that time was quickly running out, TKC’s mother poked some of the snow out of the top half of the plant pot and patted down the remaining snow in the bottom half to create a white mattress, firm enough to hold the weight of a new-born kitten.

Having prepared the kitten’s crib, TKC’s mother allowed the third kitten to be born. Once born, the mother licked the kitten clean. Then picking it up in her mouth, she gently placed it in the space she had created in the top of the plant pot.

As she gave the newly born kitten the little milk she had, she gazed upon the cuddly ball of life she had brought into the world. A quick glance at the kitten’s coat and paws informed the mother that her newly born daughter would grow up with the same proud distinguishing marks as herself.

Having fed the kitten, TKC’s mother prepared to die, carefully ensuring that her outstretched body covered the plant pot beneath which cradled her daughter. She knew that if she died in this position and place, her death would not be without purpose, as her outstretched carcass would protect the kitten beneath from the cold bite of the early-morning frost.

By the time a new sun had filled the morning sky, TKC’s mother was dead. Her snow-covered corpse lay rigid across the top of the plant pot. She had spent the last hours of her life shielding her third kitten from the winter cold and smelling the small bundle of life beneath her belly while gazing sorrowfully upon the tiny snow-covered corpses of her two sons nearby.

For many hours following her birth, TKC lived in a world of darkness and distress. Although the newborn kitten could not see its mother up above, it could smell her presence. Moreover, it was this special smell of its mother, which helped to keep it alive.

The smell of the mother was so strong that it seemed to speak to the kitten beneath. It seemed to say, Hang on, little one! Hang on to life and don’t give up! Hang on and help will come! Hang on, little one! There’s a big, beautiful and exciting world outside this cradle, waiting to welcome you into it with open arms. Hang on to life, little one! Hang on and don’t give up! Instead of surrendering to the darkness in her life, the kitten decided to ‘hang on’ in the hope of better things to come.

Having placed her trust in the hope of brighter times ahead, the optimism of the newborn kitten was duly rewarded with a stream of sunlight, cascading its way into the plant pot from its waterfall in the sky above.

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‘TKC is Found’

As TKC lay in her world of darkness, the newborn kitten heard noises. They were strange noises belonging to another world, noises which came from beyond the darkness. The noises came from the voices of Mr and Mrs Brennan, a kindly couple in their mid-50s who lived inside the Irish cottage. Shortly after hearing the voices for the first time, the cap of darkness was lifted from above the place in the plant pot where TKC lay, and light flooded into her world. The rush of light was like a reflection of sparkling diamonds being viewed for the first time through the translucent wings of an angelic butterfly.

The light carried with it pockets of warmth, which melted the shield of darkness that had previously acted as a weight upon the kitten’s closed eyelids, forcing TKC to blink her first vision of the outside world into gradual focus. Before the kitten could readjust her senses to her new situation, a big, monster hand reached down into her cradle of birth and hoisted her up into space.

TKC instantly shook with fright as her small body was suddenly rocketed out of the plant pot from one world to the next. Unaware of what was happening to her, fear invaded her body, and she began to wriggle in protest. Then she heard the noise again, as the monster hand holding her little body passed her across space and into the hands of another human monster.

The hands of the second monster, which now cradled the kitten, were like the voice that accompanied them, much smaller and softer in touch. These hands did not hold TKC as tightly as the other monster hand had done. Instead, they began to gently stroke the kitten with quiet purrs of reassurance. There now, you poor thing. There now! What you need is some nice, warm milk, you poor thing, Mrs Brennan said softly as she carefully carried the kitten inside the cottage.

Mickey and Anne Brennan were a kind, but odd couple who had somehow found each other at the age of 17 and had lived together ever since. Despite being different in some important respects, they shared enough similarity in other character traits to be suitably matched in their eccentricities.

Whereas Mrs Brennan could easily lose her temper when placed under pressure, her husband was constantly losing his patience with either this or that. They had been married for almost forty years, and although they got on well with their neighbours and the other citizens of Kilkenny, they were never a couple who mixed easily outside the company of each other. In many ways, they preferred their own company, eating from their own larder and being in their own home.

Mr and Mrs Brennan loved four things more than anything else. They loved each other, their home and their cottage garden. They also loved tidiness, almost to the point of obsession.

Their decision not to have children or pets in their life was agreed upon very early in their marriage. It was not that they disliked either which prevented them becoming parents or pet owners. It was the mess, noise and fuss which always attaches itself to children and pets that Mr and Mrs Brennan disliked.

You see, Mr and Mrs Brennan were creatures of quiet and tidy routine. Everything inside their home and cottage garden had its prim and proper place. Shoes and other footwear were always to be found on parade in the entrance hall, polished and ready for wear, positioned side-by-side in the perfect symmetry of strict regimented line, awaiting the frequent inspection of their Commander-in-Chief.

Chair cushions were never allowed to sneak into a posture of crumpled ease, even when they were being sat upon; and even Mr Brennan’s daily newspaper was ironed flat before it was ever read.

To walk inside Mrs Brennan’s kitchen at a time of the day when the sun was at its brightest was not recommended, unless the eyes of the observer had been shielded beforehand with a pair of sunglasses.

The sparkling condition of her glassware, the shiny faces of her polished pots and pans, and the pristine cleanliness of her over-mopped floor surface became powerful reflectors of the sun’s rays, which gained entrance via the spotless kitchen window.

Whether it was inside the cottage or in the garden outside, untidiness was ‘public enemy number one’ in the daily priorities of Mr and Mrs Brennan.

Very early on in their marriage, a natural division of labour began to emerge between Mr and Mrs Brennan, ensuring that both home and garden were always in a permanent state of tidiness. It had been decided that Mrs Brennan would be solely responsible for keeping the inside of the cottage prim and proper while Mr Brennan’s tidy duties would be confined to the garden outside.

This had proved to be an arrangement, which had worked well for almost forty years. It fulfilled the individual needs of this happily-married couple, besides preventing them getting under each other’s feet as they cheerfully negotiated their daily tasks. So, as Mr Brennan happily worked outside the cottage keeping the garden neat and orderly, his wife spent her day inside the cottage, cleaning, cooking, washing, ironing, polishing and dusting to her heart’s content. At the end of their day’s work, each marriage partner would inspect the tidying tasks of the other and congratulate themselves upon a job well done.

Many of their less tidy neighbours thought them to be a strange couple and would often poke fun behind their backs. If Mrs Brennan scrubs that pan clean one more time, she’ll poke a hole in it! the women neighbours would laugh.

They do say that she’s the only woman in Kilkenny whose floors are clean enough to use as dinner plates! they remarked in whispered tones.

Likewise, the men of Kilkenny were constantly joking about the tidiness of Mr Brennan’s garden. Tommy Walsh told me that he saw Mr Brennan polishing the leaves on his cabbages last week! one Kilkenny citizen told another laughingly.

And isn’t it strange how you never see so much as a fallen leaf on his patch of lawn? another neighbour remarked.

That’s because he spends all day catching them before they hit the ground! another neighbour jibed.

Although the neighbours of Mr and Mrs Brennan considered the couple to be a pair of fusspots, nobody disliked them. They were a harmless couple who possessed faces, which were easy to make friends with.

Mr and Mrs Brennan had awoken that February morning to find the garden outside their country cottage covered in snow. Mr Brennan had been the first to see how much it had snowed since they had gone to bed the previous day. He was concerned about the welfare of his tender plants and shrubs, and he began to worry that the overnight frost might have killed off some of the recently planted species.

To Mr Brennan, his garden was his Heaven on Earth, his little piece of perfect Paradise and his corner of contentment. His flowers and vegetables were his most precious of treasures. For almost forty years he had lovingly looked after this cherished plot of land, spending every hour of daylight throughout the four seasons of the year planting, weeding, pruning and generally keeping everything in the garden shipshape.

To him, the unfolding of a rosebud in Spring was a birth worthy of celebration, and the unexpected loss of a plant to the pernicious ambush of a winter frost, was no less of a bereavement than the death of a child who’d been lovingly nurtured and cared for during the infancy of its life.

And though he loved all of his garden children, the pride and joy of his horticultural family was his patch of prize cabbages. His Savoy cabbages were the pride of Kilkenny and the undoubted stars of any cabbage competition he ever entered. For ten years on the trot, he had won the Kilkenny Cabbage Cup at the Spring Show.

What’s your secret? his gardening neighbours would often ask him enviously. What’s your secret for growing champion cabbages year after year, Mickey?

Apart from talking to them in Gaelic whenever they looked a bit sorry for themselves, Mr Brennan did not do anything different to his cabbages than any of his other cabbage-growing neighbours. But there was no way that he was ever going to admit to them that he talked to his cabbages!

As Mr Brennan looked nervously out of the kitchen window, he cast his eyes around the snow-covered garden, looking for signs of any litter, which might have gained trespass entry during the eye of the snowstorm. Both he and Mrs Brennan had the eyes of a hawk when it came to spotting anything out of place. Minutes later, his meticulous observation was rewarded when he noticed something strange in his garden. It was something that most certainly had not been there yesterday; something that had no right to be there now!

Being too far away to recognize the offending object, he solicited the ‘I spy’ services of his wife. While his own eyesight was better than most men of his age were, his wife’s was better still. She could spot a pimple on a dimple on a bearded man’s chin at thirty paces!

I can see it, dear, she told her husband. I can clearly see it, but I can’t tell what it is. It’s covered in snow. It . . . could be a piece of windblown driftwood . . . I think.

Mr and Mrs Brennan continued to look at the object for a few minutes before their curiosity overcame them. They put on some warm clothes and winter footwear and then ventured out into the garden to investigate. As Mr Brennan moved closer to the object, he could see that it was motionless. The stillness seemed to confirm the likelihood that it was a piece of driftwood as suggested by Mrs Brennan.

He bent down, picked it up, and began to brush away the layer of snow, which now covered its surface in a coat of frost.

Convinced that he was in fact holding a piece of wood, he was astonished to see two eyes, a head, body and tail begin to emerge from beneath the snow. Goodness gracious! he exclaimed in fright as he dropped the object to the ground. Goodness gracious! It’s a dead cat!

Poor thing! Mrs Brennan replied. Poor thing! It must have frozen to death in the cold of the night. Poor thing! Then Mrs Brennan spotted something else. Look! she cried in astonishment as she pointed towards the upright plant pot. Look, dear! In the top of the plant pot. It’s . . .it’s a little kitten curled up in a ball!

Mr Brennan reached down and lifted the kitten out of the plant pot with one hand.

Be careful, dear! Mrs Brennan remarked. Be careful, you big, clumsy brute or you’ll crush it with those big, rough hands of yours. Here, pass the poor thing to me before you squeeze the life out of it!

Mrs Brennan took the kitten from her husband’s hands and began to gently stroke it, saying as she did so, Poor thing! You’re shivering. Let’s get you inside the warm house before you catch your death of cold. What you need is some nice, warm milk, you poor thing!

While Mrs Brennan carried the kitten indoors, her husband decided to bury the dead cat. He walked towards his garden shed for a sack and a spade. The sack would be used to place the corpse in and convey it to the chosen burial site and the spade would be used to dig the hole. As he walked towards the garden shed, he spotted the two dead kittens nearby. The smell of death was starting to irritate his nostrils. After placing the mother cat and her two dead kittens inside the sack, he carried the three corpses across to a corner in his garden where he grew his cabbages.

Being February, the cabbage patch was bare, so he dug a deep hole and placed the two kittens and the dead cat in it. He then said a brief prayer as he gazed down at the ginger corpses.

After filling in the burial hole, Mr Brennan made his way back to the garden shed to clean his spade before hanging it back on the peg. Goodness gracious! Well, I never! What a morning it has been! Goodness gracious! he muttered as he began to scrape the soil off his spade.

Whenever Mr and Mrs Brennan experienced any shock, surprise or upset to their daily routine, she would say ‘Poor thing!’ or ‘Poor me!’ and he would exclaim ‘Goodness gracious!’ or ‘Well, I never!’

Whatever the cause of their upset, the origin of surprise or the circumstances of their distress, these favourite words of expression seemed to satisfy the suitability of all occasions.

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‘TKC is Named’

Once back indoors, Mrs Brennan’s level of anxiety quickly lowered. She was always happiest inside instead of outside her home. Her home represented ‘the heart of her’ and was a place that naturally made her more confident in her capacity to get to grips with the complexity of any problem that faced her, firm in the belief that she would do the right thing and do it well.

She got out an old, wicker basket, and after lining the base of it with one of her old, woolly jumpers, she gently placed the kitten inside. Then she moved the basket closer to the warmth of the fire. You wait there, you poor thing she told the kitten, before going off into the kitchen where she warmed up some milk.

There you are, you poor thing! Mrs Brennan exclaimed upon her return with a saucer of milk, which she carefully placed inside the basket. The kitten smelled the milk and then moved towards the saucer to taste it. In its eagerness to lap it up, combined with the unsteadiness of its movement, it knocked over the saucer.

Oh, poor me! Mrs Brennan cried out in distress when she saw the spilled milk inside the basket. Oh, poor me! This will never work. What a mess! What am I to do? Oh, poor me! she exclaimed in panic.

The more that Mrs Brennan looked at the spilled milk and the messy basket, the more upset she became. Nothing upset Mrs Brennan as much as mess. Once she got upset, her body would start to quiver in a blob of uncontrollable anxiety. The longer she remained upset, the more violently she would shake. The quiver would graduate to a wobble, and then rapidly move towards a violent shaking motion — like a wobbly plate of jelly before the fall being held by a pair of unsteady hands. Nothing would stop the shaking, until the mess had been removed and tidiness restored.

Realizing that the kitten was still too young to drink milk unaided, Mrs Brennan ran outside and told her husband to go to the chemist’s shop. Oh, poor me! Quickly! Go to the shop quickly and buy a baby’s feeding bottle, she commanded. Go on! Go now, man, before it’s too late! Go now! Oh, poor me!

Mr Brennan put down the spade he had been in the process of cleaning and looked at his wife for an explanation, being completely puzzled by her strange request. He was also annoyed to have been broken off his cleaning task. He had not yet finished cleaning his spade, and he could not possibly put it back in his garden shed until he had returned it to its previous condition of pristine shininess.

Stop gawping, man! Mrs Brennan yelled. You look like a fish out of water. Stop gawping and fetch me the feeding bottle like I’ve asked you.

But . . . but why do you want me to buy a baby’s feeding bottle? Mr Brennan asked, adding, We don’t have an infant to feed!

Oh, grant me mercy from those fools called men! Mrs Brennan exclaimed in exasperation. It’s for the kitten, you . . . you silly man she exclaimed. It’s for the kitten!

Can’t it wait? Mr Brennan asked cautiously.

Looking at his wife, he could tell that he was now walking on perilous ground. He could see her quiver, and knew that if she didn’t get her own way soon, she would quickly start to wobble in angry agitation.

I’ve just buried one cat and two dead kittens, he told her, and I can’t possibly put my spade back in the garden shed until it's been cleaned, sterilized and polished.

No, it can’t wait! Mrs Brennan replied in a wobble. It won’t wait! If you don’t go now, the poor thing will most certainly die. And guess what? If it dies, you’ll only have to dig another hole to bury it. Now get a move on, you silly man. Go now, before you become a murderer! Go on! Go, go! Go now!

Mr Brennan realized that he had lost the argument, and putting his dirty spade in an upright position, he reluctantly went off to buy the requested baby bottle. Ten minutes later, he returned with the required purchase and, after giving it to his wife, he resumed his cleaning duties of the spade.

The feeding bottle did the job, and over the course of the following month, the kitten grew stronger and livelier. While Mrs Brennan’s bottle-feeding idea had worked a treat and had solved the immediate problem, she soon discovered that the solving of one problem had merely led to the creation of another problem in its place.

The kitten needed bottle feeding every three hours, night and day. And because this was a task that took place inside the cottage, in Mr Brennan’s reckoning, the responsibility for carrying it out naturally fell to Mrs Brennan.

For the following four weeks, Mrs Brennan’s daily cleaning routine and her nightly sleep, were constantly interrupted every time that the kitten needed bottle-feeding. Each time that the kitten wanted feeding, Mr Brennan would either be engaged elsewhere or conveniently in the unwakable depths of deep sleep.

As Mr Brennan slept on through the night, his wife’s verbal protests could be heard every few hours when the kitten cried out to be fed. Oh, poor me! she would mutter as she dragged her weary body out of bed for the second or third time that night. Oh, poor me! I’m so tired! Poor me!

After four weeks of bottle-feeding the kitten, Mrs Brennan was pleased to discover that the kitten was now able to drink its milk from a saucer, unaided. This enabled her to re- establish her daily tidying-up routine without too many interruptions.

During the second month of the kitten’s life, the daily routine inside the cottage returned to normal. Although the kitten was always close to hand (curled up in a ball somewhere), unless it mewed to indicate that it was hungry, Mrs Brennan wouldn’t have known it was there.

Having fed the kitten for the first month of its life, Mrs Brennan gradually found herself becoming attached to it. This was an emotional investment which Mrs Brennan had never anticipated making when she had initially taken the kitten into her home. It was the kind of emotional attachment, which made her feel distinctly uncomfortable.

Reminding herself that she had never intended the kitten to have been any more than a ‘temporary lodger on a short-term lease’, she knew that the day would eventually arrive when the cat would have to go. What she had wanted to avoid was to find her original intention compromised as a result of having formed an emotional bond of attachment with the creature.

Mrs Brennan decided to ignore the kitten’s presence as much as was humanly possible over the remaining months of its stay with them. But being ignorant as to the peculiarities of a cat’s perverse perception of human behaviour, Mrs Brennan could not possibly have known that the deliberate distancing of her apparent affection for the kitten would merely achieve the opposite effect of what she wanted.

While children are frequently told by their parents that ‘it is rude to stare’, cat-lovers often forget this rule when they are looking at an approaching feline. They forget that cats find the prolonged look of a human intimidating. That is why, upon entering a room of strangers, a cat in search of a lap to sit on, will always make a beeline for their ideal human companion — the person who doesn’t give them a second look or make a fuss about their presence.

So it was with TKC and the Brennans as the three of them would gather together in the evening hours to relax in front of the lounge fire. As the kitten entered the room, Mr Brennan would observe its passage from lounge door to its chosen resting place, while Mrs Brennan (although aware of the kitten’s presence), would never give it more than a cursory glance.

A few minutes later, it would be nestling in the fold of Mrs Brennan’s lap. Even when she shooed it away with a dismissive wave of her hand and a feigned tone of disapproval in her voice, within minutes the kitten would return to its favourite nestling spot.

On those occasions when Mrs Brennan wasn’t in the lounge and Mr Brennan was occupied reading his newspaper or taking an evening nap in the fireside chair, TKC would climb up his arm and across his shoulders, where she would find a suitable soft spot to rest, like a perching parrot.

One evening as TKC nestled in the seated lap of Mrs Brennan, the woman found herself unconsciously stroking the kitten with the natural affection of a cat lover. As she stroked, TKC glanced up, purred contentedly and gave her one of those charming, yet vulnerable looks, which melted the woman’s heart into a state of maternal mesmerisation.

Turning towards her husband, Mrs Brennan said, Poor thing. Just look how happy it is, dear. Isn’t it cute? And now that it can feed itself, it’s hardly any trouble at all to look after. What do you think, dear? Shall we keep the poor, little thing?

Goodness gracious! Mr Brennan replied in astonishment at his wife’s suggestion. Well, I never! What a good idea, dear. But what shall we call it?

It’s a cat Mrs Brennan replied. There’s no need to give it any special name. It’s only a cat. It’s a ginger tom. Surely we can think of a suitable name to give it.

Ginger! Mr Brennan exclaimed. Let’s call it Ginger!

Mrs Brennan was not at all taken by that suggestion. Calling it Ginger she remarked, makes it sound like some sort of biscuit.

Biscuit! That’s a good idea, Mr Brennan said. Let’s call it Dunker!

Dunker! exclaimed a puzzled-looking Mrs Brennan.

Wherever did you drag that name up from? she asked.

Ginger biscuits — Dunker! Dunker! — Ginger biscuits! Mr Brennan told her. Everyone who eats ginger biscuits dunks them in their cup of tea before popping them in the mouth!

Mrs Brennan was not at all taken by that suggestion either. The next suggestion made by Mr Brennan was to call the kitten Savoy.

You are a silly man sometimes! Mrs Brennan said as she dismissed that suggestion outright. I’m not giving any cat who lives under my roof the name of a cabbage, you silly man!

By now, Mr Brennan was beginning to lose all interest in selecting a name for the kitten and had started to grow impatient with the entire exercise.

Well then Mr Brennan remarked with a tone of finality, let’s just call the creature ‘Cat!’ After all, that’s all it is, a cat!

It’s not just any old cat Mrs Brennan replied, it’s . . . it’s a Kilkenny cat.

We’ll call it ‘The Kilkenny Cat’ then Mr Brennan suggested. That’s it. Settled then. The Kilkenny Cat is what we’ll call it!

Mrs Brennan jumped up from her chair and exclaimed, Got it! I know what to call the cat. We’ll call it TKC. Get it? TKC — The Kilkenny Cat!

Mrs Brennan smiled across at her husband who looked totally gobsmacked. For 40 years, she had listened to his silly suggestions, and only she was capable of extracting the sense from all of the nonsense he frequently spoke.

Looking towards him with a smug look of satisfaction, she stroked the kitten and said, Yes! ‘TKC‘ is the perfect name for this creature. What more suitable name could we possibly find for a cat born in Kilkenny than TKC?

Mr Brennan still looked puzzled as he scratched his head. He still had not made the connection between the cat’s place of birth and its suggested abbreviated name of TKC. I don’t get it! he remarked. TKC doesn’t make any sense to me. I just don’t get it!

Of course you don’t, you silly man. If you spent more of your time reading books and less time talking to your cabbages, you’d soon get it! Mrs Brennan remarked.

So, having emotionally attached themselves to the kitten who had shared their home for the past 10 weeks, and in the widely-mistaken belief that this little bundle of friendly fur would continue to be no trouble at all to look after, Mr and Mrs Brennan decided to keep TKC as their own. But, having initially wanted to remain emotionally unattached to the kitten they hadn’t examined it too closely and were wholly unaware that TKC was actually a queen in tom’s clothing.

#####

‘From Cuddly Kitten to Curious Cat’

Impulsive decisions made in a beat of the heart instead of an hour of the head at leisure are, more often than not, regretted. Over the next four months as TKC changed from cuddly kitten into curious cat, Mr and Mrs Brennan gradually grew to regret their decision to keep ‘the lodger.’ The gloss of their affection for the creature soon began to wear thin as the kitten grew in size, courage and mischievousness.

Mrs Brennan was the first to lose her patience with the daily antics of the kitten. Day by day, the number of times she exclaimed, ‘Oh, poor me!’ began to increase in conjunction with her mounting level of anxiety and distress.

The development of a newborn creature from kitten to fully-grown cat is not much different in pattern from the development of an infant to a teenager. But being inexperienced in the knowledge of either, Mr and Mrs Brennan had no way of knowing how quickly things can change in such a short span of time, especially where kittens are concerned.

The Brennans did not realize that a 1-year-old cat is equivalent in age comparison to a 15-year-old human; or that a 2-year-old cat is equivalent to a 25-year-old person and that a 20-year-old cat would equate with a human aged 105 years!

As TKC began to feel more settled with her owner and more comfortable and familiar with her surroundings, she naturally developed the urge to explore her new world, very much as a growing toddler might do. Being a cat and not a pack animal like dogs or humans, the fact that she was the only one of her kind inside the cottage did not deter her from doing things on her own.

As all novice explorers quickly discover, however, there are no new roads of learning travelled and no new tasks accomplished to a level of satisfaction without the natural experience of many mishaps along the way! TKC quickly became introduced to one of life’s early lessons as she gradually began to understand that there is invariably no gain without the experience of some pain.

Had TKC been blessed with the advantages of a mother in the background to guide her, it would have undoubtedly been easier for her. But without a protective mother figure to offer her advice and provide her with essential information, or to steer her along the right path, the orphaned kitten had only her five senses of sight, smell, touch, taste and hearing to help her along the road of learning.

These five senses were the essential learning blocks that helped the kitten to make sense of the world in which it lived. They were the only attributes TKC possessed which were capable of helping her to recognize safety and danger, and to distinguish the difference between pleasure and pain. When used together, her five senses helped TKC to understand whether the humans with whom she came into contact approved or disapproved of her presence and behaviour.

Humans and pet owners frequently forget that creatures from the animal world cannot ‘understand’ human language. Unlike a child, a kitten does not possess the power of human communication. No animal can ever know the mood of any human by what is spoken. They make most of their interpretations through the association of their senses, sight and sound. They learn to judge the mood of their owners by ‘how’ words are expressed, and not ‘what’ is said.

TKC, like all creatures before her, quickly learned that she would never possess the power to know the thoughts inside her owner’s head. She soon realized that the best she could achieve in understanding the emotions of Mr and Mrs Brennan was to listen to the sounds of their voices and to keep a constant watch for the changing look upon their faces and the sudden movement of their bodies. It was by such means that during the first three months of her life, TKC came to recognize the difference between a smile and a scowl, and to distinguish the crucial importance between the gentle flow of the softly spoken word and the determined voice of mounting anger.

Before she had entered the fourth month of her life, TKC had also learned that in the world of humans, smiling faces usually walk hand-in-hand with softly spoken words, and are invariably followed by gentle stroking or kindly acts. Likewise, TKC also learned that scrunched-up screaming faces spelled imminent danger, especially whenever accompanied by a shaking fist, or a hostile, weapon-bearing human hand! TKC learned to hang around when all the signs of safety were present and to scarper for immediate cover when the signs of danger loomed large.

By the age of four months, TKC had started to recognize the changing moods of Mrs Brennan. Although TKC did not know why Mrs Brennan’s moods had swung from friendly towards hostile, of one thing the kitten was certain. Mrs Brennan had started to shout at her more and smile less! Also, the number of occasions when Mrs Brennan’s body began to move from stillness to constant shaking postures dramatically increased.

Mrs Brennan’s mood swings from better to worse had coincided with that precise period in the kitten’s life when TKC began to discover her power of smell and her urge to explore. From the age of two months onwards, the kitten’s nostrils were in a constant state of excitable itch as TKC began to explore every room and corner of the Irish cottage.

There was so much to discover and TKC had been born with an insatiable eagerness to learn. There were so many new places inside the cottage to explore and so many new smells for her nose to follow. The kitten could see the source of some smells, but not others, and it was those hidden-away smells which naturally intrigued TKC most of all. Smells, which originated from behind the closed doors of secret rooms, especially that place inside the cottage, which was known as ‘the kitchen.’

Mrs Brennan’s kitchen was the one place inside the cottage that TKC was not allowed to enter, and when she was working there, it was even considered to be ‘out of bounds’ for Mr Brennan. Mrs Brennan spent a large part of her day in the kitchen, creating marvellous, mouth-watering lip-licking smells from behind the closed door, which kept out trespassers.

Often, as Mrs Brennan merrily baked her day away, TKC would park herself at the other side of the closed kitchen door with her nose positioned close to the ground. A small gap between the bottom of the door and the floor acted as a secret escape route for some of the many smells that Mrs Brennan conjured up inside her secret kitchen enclave. Some smells that TKC stole a sniff of were naturally more pleasing than others, whereas some smells sent the cat’s nostrils into a heavenly state of feline frenzy.

After a period of about one week of snatching whiffs of wonderful food from the wrong side of the kitchen door, TKC became determined to remain locked out no longer. But each time that the kitten tried to sneak entry into Mrs Brennan’s food fortress, her owner would give her one of those stern looks, accompanied by some loudly- spoken words and a wagging finger of warning.

Now, you stay there! Mrs Brennan would warn TKC as she went into the kitchen to commence another morning of cooking and baking; always ensuring that the kitchen door was firmly shut behind her. Having had her entry forbidden once again, TKC would position herself outside the door and wait for the lovely food fragrances to be wafted through.

As the weeks went by, the aroma of the food coming from the kitchen became more inviting and began to tantalize and torment the kitten’s nostrils. The stronger the smell became, the stronger TKC’s desire and determination to get inside the kitchen grew.

One morning, when Mrs Brennan was baking, TKC made an important decision. As usual, TKC had found herself parked on the wrong side of the kitchen door. Although only 3-months-old at the time, TKC was daily becoming more courageous in her exploits. She was also developing the art of deviousness.

TKC swallowed her fear, and after summoning up the courage to follow her instinct, she began to scratch the bottom of the closed kitchen door with her claws. Hearing the kitten scratching on the other side of the door, Mrs Brennan yelled, Go away, TKC! Go away! Kitchens are ‘out of bounds’ for kittens. Go away!

But TKC had no intention of going away until she got what she most wanted, so she scratched again; this time, much louder and longer than before. Mrs Brennan heard the scratching and was annoyed by the kitten’s wilful persistence to ignore her clear instructions to ‘go away’.

I’ve told you, TKC, to go away! Now scram before I take a baking spoon to your backside. Go away, now! she yelled as she continued to mix another bowl of dough, ready to make another batch of freshly- baked buns.

TKC continued to scratch the bottom of the kitchen door and, in response to the kitten’s defiance, Mrs Brennan’s annoyance changed to anger. Her body began to wobble and her face turned beetroot red with rage. Oh, poor me! Mrs Brennan began to wail in distress, once she realized that she had started to wobble.

She picked up a large, wooden spoon and made her way towards the kitchen door, fully determined to give the pest of a kitten a piece of her mind and a sharp whack with the wooden spoon if it didn’t scarper instantly. When Mrs Brennan opened the kitchen door, she was surprised to see no sign of the kitten. Upon hearing the sound of her approaching footsteps, TKC had hidden around the corner, out of sight.

As Mrs Brennan turned to walk back inside the kitchen, TKC seized the opportunity she had deviously planned for and quickly followed her in without being spotted. Once inside the kitchen, TKC hid quietly in a corner for the next hour whilst Mrs Brennan finished her baking.

TKC began to feel pleased with herself, and as she lay in wait for Mrs Brennan to finish, she allowed herself the privilege of a smug smile. There are not many times in the life of a growing creature when they are able to ‘get one over’ on their human bigger and betters. Such occasions are moments of sweet satisfaction to be relished and, at the time of triumph, the risks taken and the consequences of later punishment (once found out), are easily buried at the back of the creature’s mind.

Having finished her baking for the day and having tidied up, Mrs Brennan left the kitchen, closing the door behind her. Instead of being ‘shut out’ of the kitchen, TKC now found herself ‘shut in.’ But none of that mattered for the moment. For the first time in her life, TKC found herself on the right side of the kitchen door; the inside!

Her nostrils began to twitch with excitement as they began to capture the vast range of heavenly smells, coming from somewhere up above. It took TKC a full five minutes for her to gather her senses and to work out the strange terrain of this heavenly food parlour. There were two areas from which most of the food smells came, one higher and, the other, much lower. Being unable to either see or reach the heavenly smells up above, TKC naturally began to pursue the source of the lower smell.

The lower smell came from a rectangular-shaped cast-iron house, which stood upright on Mrs Brennan’s kitchen floor. The front of the metal house had a grilled window section in it, which enabled searching eyes to see the steak and kidney pie within. TKC could clearly smell the meaty aroma of the home-made pie, so she poked her face closer to the glass section at the front of the oven for a better look.

This was the first and very last time in her life that TKC would place her paws and nose on a hot oven door. The burning sensation that stung her nose sharply and which scorched the padded section of her front paws, caused her to instinctively pull back and shriek in pain. Her cry of distress was so loud that it pierced the eardrums of Mrs Brennan on the other side of the kitchen door. It was like the painful cry of a crushed hedgehog being flattened and killed by a heavy lorry.

Mrs Brennan came running to the kitchen in alarm. The look on her face registered the concern that there was more than a steak and kidney pie cooking in her oven. She began to fear that she had unknowingly lit the oven and closed it without having spotted a hibernating creature who’d come through the opened kitchen window, and who’d decided to have a little nap in one of the inner oven corners.

Whilst such an experience had never previously visited the Brennan kitchen, Mrs Brennan was aware that one of her nearby neighbours had once put a cherry pie in the oven to bake and had found a roasted frog two hours later!

Upon seeing the kitten in the kitchen hopping around the floor, Mrs Brennan’s initial instinct was to shout angrily at TKC and whack her with a wooden spoon on the tip of her nose. However, her mood of extreme annoyance quickly changed to one of concern when she noticed the blisters on TKC’s paws and nose. Realizing that the kitten had badly burnt itself on the hot oven door, Mrs Brennan’s compassion for the injured creature took precedence over her anger.

Oh, you poor thing! Mrs Brennan remarked as she bent down to pick up the kitten. A quick examination by her of TKC’s nose and paws revealed the burnt and blistered skin that the kitten had received in exchange for her kitchen trespass. Let’s get you some antiseptic cream on these burnt paws Mrs Brennan remarked. You silly kitten. You’ve burnt the skin off them. And just look at the redness of that nose.

Ten minutes later, TKC’s front paws had been treated with antiseptic cream and had been bandaged. The kitten’s nose was considered to be too sensitive a part of the injured cat’s body to have a sticking plaster applied to it, so Mrs Brennan simply dabbed a large blob of cream on it, to counter the heat sensation of the burn.

TKC’s burnt paws and nose remained extremely sore for the next two weeks, and the kitten’s obvious reluctance to go anywhere near the kitchen convinced Mrs Brennan that the cat had clearly learned its lesson.

During the month that followed TKC getting her paws and nose burnt, and in the firm belief that the kitten would have no desire ever to venture into the kitchen again, Mrs Brennan stopped being obsessive about the need to close the kitchen door behind her whenever she did her daily baking.

Every time TKC recalled her venture into the kitchen, an involuntary shudder of pain would instantly shoot into her paws and the tip of her nose. The mere thought of going in there again would make the cat wince in discomfort. But as any person who has ever experienced pain as the unfortunate consequence of a pleasurable pursuit will realize, in time, the pain is pushed to the back of the mind whilst the pleasure of the pursuit is allowed to rise again at the forefront of their thoughts. And so it was with TKC, that the time arrived again when she was prepared to risk the pain for the pleasurable opportunity of getting what she still wanted.

Slowly but surely, the smells from Mrs Brennan’s kitchen baking began to waft themselves back into the nostrils and preoccupation of the kitten’s mind. Mrs Brennan was no ordinary cook, and the smells produced by her daily baking in the kitchen were no ordinary smells. The aromas, which once more captivated the nostrils of TKC, were smells, which teased the kitten’s palate and tantalized her senses.

These were smells from Mrs Brennan’s freshly baked buns: smells from her tasty meat and potato pie, which triggered an instant desire to devour. There were rich smells that rose from succulent salmon which poached in butter — smells from the floating, airborne clouds, which drifted majestically above a plate of steamed fish. And then there was the most rapturous, enticing smell of all — the smoky, pungent aroma of a grilled kipper!

These were smells good enough to die for. Smells which no self-respecting cat with a nose for good food could ever ignore! TKC knew there and then that whatever the risks proved to be, whatever awful punishment or pain lay in store for her, whatever the outcome of entering the forbidden land of Mrs Brennan’s kitchen, that she would go there again, one day soon!

TKC was four-months-old before she decided to explore the kitchen again. Entry to the kitchen area on this occasion was through a partly opened door, with the only skill required to get in there unnoticed being one of silence.

Mrs Brennan had almost completed her baking for the morning when TKC entered unnoticed. TKC made her way quietly by the hot oven towards a kitchen corner, where she intended to seclude herself behind the fridge until it was safe to come out.

As TKC passed by the hot oven, she experienced the sensation of a fearful spasm, which travelled from the tip of her nose all the way down to the toes on her front paws. For one brief moment, she almost changed her mind and had started to turn back, but then her nostrils became intoxicated by the smell of fresh fish.

As both fear and fish began to fiercely compete with each other for the control of her next actions, TKC turned back and quickly made her way towards her hiding place behind the fridge. Fear and fish had entered into a vicious tug of war, but from the outset, it became clear as to who the victor would be. Nothing could compete with the pulling power of the fresh fish, nothing!

After Mrs Brennan had finished her baking, she placed the fish pie she had made and the large bowl of creamy rice pudding on top of her kitchen-working surface. Next, she covered them up with a clean, white, cotton cloth to keep the flies off. She had also baked a dozen mince pies, but after taking them out of the oven, she decided to call to the grocers to buy some more flour, so that she could bake another dozen mince pies upon her return.

Mr Brennan loved mince pies and could quite cheerfully and unknowingly eat a full dozen after his main course. He was able to polish off a plate of mince pies faster than a chocoholic could work their way through a two-tiered box of their favourite selections.

As Mrs Brennan left the kitchen to buy some more flour, she closed the door behind her. TKC waited for a few minutes, just to make sure that the coast was clear before emerging from behind the fridge in the far corner.

TKC had been able to smell the fish pie, creamy rice pudding and mince pies, but hadn’t seen where Mrs Brennan had placed this food. As TKC paced the kitchen floor, she caught a whiff of the fish pie from somewhere up above. The fish pie was the strongest smell that filled the kitchen, but it was only when TKC turned her head and nostrils to the left of the fish pie that she also smelled the creamy rice pudding and mince pies.

All three food smells came from up above, somewhere above a high mountain of kitchen fittings which ran all the way around the kitchen walls. The mountain of fittings was too high for TKC to see the food on top of it, but her nose confirmed with certainty that the three food items were there.

TKC looked up, trying to find some path that would take her to the mountaintop. But the sheer steepness of the mountain face and its smoothness seemed to make the task impossible. TKC gave a sigh of disappointment. She then saw something positioned in the middle of the