After much persuasion I got a new cat last summer. He was a beautiful feral creature about four weeks old - rescued from a garden in Shankill. We called him Bosie after Wilde's nemesis - our other cat is called Oscar. I took him along to the vet for shots and he told me to bring him back in about six months so he could be neutered. We mollycoddled him ceaselessly and he soon grew domesticated. He would sleep in your lap as you watched TV and didn't show much interest in venturing outside at night. As he grew older we waited for signs of aberrant tomcat behaviour: such as spraying, fighting and wandering abroad. But none arrived so we let the six months pass without interfering with his manly apparatus.
Imagine my surprise then when I get an hysterical call from my daughter yesterday telling me that Bosie had just delivered a perfect little facsimile of himself on a duvet in her room. Our ostensibly male cat had just had a kitten.
