A.K.A. Fudgepuddle. Fin J Ross

he can't hear this; it's pretty yawny stuff. I glance across to his pen and see him with his ear to the ground.

      A rascal called Raffles

      'Shh, she's coming,' Beethoven calls out. 'Miss Steph is coming.'

      He runs up his ramp to the top shelf and curls himself in a tight ball, feigning sleep. Maharani is quick to follow. I can't figure this out. When I arrived this morning everyone was up and screaming; now they're all pretending to be asleep.

      'Psst Maharani,' I whisper 'how come we're all pretending to be asleep?'

      'D'oh Juno, you know that all deuxjambs think we sleep all afternoon. We just like to live up to their illusions - you know, play along. That maintains the cattus quo. They think they're in charge and we go along with it so they think they've got us sorted out,' Maharani says.

      'I see. That's clever. I mean, I do that at home but I didn't realise it was part of some grander scheme.'

      'There's a bit of reverse psychology there too,' Big Dan whispers, 'because if we make them think we want to sleep all afternoon, they'll think we're being yawny and they'll go away and leave us alone, which gives us cat blanche to do whatever we want.'

      I purse my lips and nod, my head tilted slightly. 'Makes perfect sense to me.'

      I follow the others and curl myself into a pretzel shape. But I keep one eye open just enough to see what's going on. I see Miss Steph tiptoeing past, carrying a cage. Two green eyes the size of dinner plates peer out of a face, the likes of which I've never seen before. It looks like a cross between a spoffum and a hootle. Certainly I haven't seen a feeli that looks like that before.

      'Here we are then, Raffles, number 25 for you. Now you settle in there and I'll be back in a tick with the camera, oh, and maybe I'll get a photo of Miss Fudgepuddle while I'm at it.'

      Fudgepuddle! I crack up. Who does she call Fudgepuddle? What a scream. I roll on my back and try hard to stifle a big giggle just as she's walking past again, but I can't help accidentally letting out a raspberry.

      'What's up with you then, girl?' She stops at my gate and peers in. I roll back over, give her a benign smile and put my head back under my armpit. I can't help wondering which poor sucker it is that she calls Fudgepuddle and I titter again. A few moments later I hear her coming back. I keep my head down and hear her footsteps pass by, followed by the click of a gate opening.

      'It's okay boy,' she says soothingly. 'Now, smile for the camera, c'mon, stay still, no stay still. Oh c'mon, just for a second, will you? No, don't come towards me, just stay there. No, c'mon look at me, look at me. Ohh…'

      She sounds exasperated so I guess this new boarder is giving her a hard time. Maybe he's camera shy. Not like me. I just love having my picture taken and I love all the gushy noises my deuxjambs make when they look at the pictures. They obviously think I'm some sort of screen goddess. I hear a click and then another.

      'Good boy, Raffles, that should do me nicely,' Miss Steph says.

      Which gets me to wondering. If deuxjambs think we don't understand what they say, how come they don't feel really stupid talking to us? They might as well be talking to themselves. I mean it's not like we're going to answer them. At least not in a language they understand.

      I start to ponder about how misunderstood we feelis are. I mean, if TS Eliot had understood Mr Mistoffolees better, he'd have realised there was nothing 'magical' about him. He was just the master of feelichatra; which apparently just takes a lot of practice, not magic. But at least he acknowledged that we feelis all have our own name, which is ours to conjure up and ours to keep.

      Really, not many deuxjambs do understand us. The Egyptians had it right. I mean it's obvious in the way they revered their feelis. After all, you don't see many quiffo mummies, do you? Yes, we were worshipped and adored just as some of us are today - if our deuxjambs have been properly trained. Emily Bronte, my favourite author 'cos she invented Catty and Heathcliff, knew what she was talking about when she wrote: 'A cat is an animal which has more human feelings than almost any other.'

      And it's common knowledge that many well-regarded statesmen owe their greatness to their feelis. I mean Winston Churchill's feeli, Jock, actually directed most of the negotiations at wartime cabinet meetings. And Theodore Roosevelt's feeli, Slippers, made it his mission to ensure that guests to the White Home followed the right protocol. I know all this stuff 'cos I like to sit on the back of Hayoo's chair and read over her shoulder.

      But when you think about it, it's obvious: we feelis only want to associate with good and kind deuxjambs. That's why Napoleon Bonaparte was terrified of us; because somehow he knew that we knew what he was up to. And we swore we'd tell everyone unless he was kind to us. We made him cross his heart and hope to die - that's why he always had his hand in his jacketfront.

      I'm disturbed from my reverie by Miss Steph.

      'Hellllooo Fudgepuddle,' she says as though introducing a quiz show contestant. My hair stands on end when I realise she's addressing me - and opening my gate.

      'Whaaat,' I let out an agonising groan, or maybe it's a yarl. I can't quite tell. And then I'm drowned out by a dozen feelis all cacking themselves with laughter.

      I'm mortified. And petrified - literally; I've turned to stone. I just sit like a statue with my mouth gaping. Miss Steph approaches me and raises the camera up to her eye.

      'In your bloody dreams,' I spit. I snarl. I schpiff. I'm on the verge of a schpitzo and then I decide that a pfutt is a more appropriate gesture. So I huff, I turn around, I show her my back. I ignore her. Completely.

      'C'mon Fudgepuddle, that's not very sociable.'

      I continue to ignore her, stare at the corner and contemplate my next move. Burying my face in the pillow in ignominious shame feels like the most logical thing to do.

      Fudgepuddle! Why me? Why Fudgepuddle? It's Juno, JUNO, don't you understand? I want to cry. And to think I thought she was nice.

      'Okay, girl, I can see you're not ready for the camera yet. I'll come back when you're a bit more settled,' Miss Steph says. And then my whole spine shivers as she runs her hand down my back. If I were prepared to acknowledge it I'd have to admit it feels really good but I can't forget myself. I swish my tail from side to side and issue a low growl. She gets the hint and leaves me alone.

      'Oh shut up you lot,' I schpiff when Miss Steph's gone.

      'Fudgepuddle ha ha ha,' Maharani splurts. 'Fudgepuddle, Fudgepuddle…' she starts to sing and before long Rocky, Rabbit, Zsa Zsa and even the Colonel start to join in. I just want to shrivel up and die.

      'What's so funny? Who's Fudgepuddle?' a tiny, cheeky voice asks. 'Hi everyone, I'm Riley. I'm the new one.'

      'Hello Riley, I'm Maharani Shani, but you can just call me Maharani if you like. And I gather they call you Raffles, yes?'

      'Yes that's right.'

      'Why's that? Do you know? And, if you don't mind me asking, where did you come from? You don't look like any feeli I've ever seen. You're so tiny and you've got such big eyes. Actually you look like your umbi or fuddy was a ringtail spoffum or a slow loris. A-ha-he-hee,' Maharani titters.

      'There's nothing slow about me. I'm a Singapura if you must know and I come from Singapore. Well I don't come from Singapore but my grandifeelis did. That's where we originated and that's why we look so ecsotique. No idea why they call me Raffles though.'

      'Oh,' says Maharani. 'Anyway, you were asking about Fudgepuddle. Well, Juno over there, known by her deuxjambs as Megsy, has just been dubbed Fudgepuddle by Miss Steph… and, well,' she starts to chuckle, 'we think it's really funny but she's not too happy about it'.

      'Ha ha ha, I wouldn't be either. Why, is she fat or something?'

      'No I'm not fat,' I blurt out, 'I'm voluptuous. And voluptuous,