I will never forget the day my uncle told me about his neighbour’s cat Malcolm. Partly because my family always manage to crowbar it into conversation somehow whenever we get together, but mostly because Malcolm is indeed, by all accounts, a bit of a shit (pardon the swear). Every day, he’d waltz through my uncle’s cat flap, gobble up the two lots of food he’d put down for his own pair of scaredy-cats, then turn around and promptly leave again. Certain retellings sometimes have him peeing on the mat. Others, puking his guts up.
