I have a cat. It is black. My aunt asked if she could borrow it. She was going to a fancy dress party dressed as a witch. It’s not fancy dress at all for her. I know she practises witchcraft at home.
My cat is called Rutterkin. When it came back I was sure it wasn’t the same cat. It looked the same, but it wasn’t the same. My cat never liked to rub itself against my leg. This one does. My cat would lick my hand knuckles with its raspy tongue. This one doesn’t.
I asked my aunt about it. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it, dear,” she said. “Everything is alright.”
I’m only eight. What do I know?
Once when I got up in the night to go to the toilet, I passed the door of my sister’s room. The door was open. The black cat was on the pillow next to my sleeping sister. It was sucking blood from her neck.