The man from the cats' home is a mad plonky nutter called Felix Scratcher, but thankfully he didn't suspect that I had an ulterior motive in being there. He decided to show me around his establishment for the rehabilitation of his feline friends and I was astonished at the levels of squalor and wretchedness - by which I mean there wasn't any. Squalor and wretchedness, that is. These animals ought to be living like animals, but they were better off than I was. Each pussy cat had its own room, with en suite bathroom, TV and video games consoles. Meals were served three times a day and consisted of only the very best fresh fish, prepared in the home's own extensive kitchen. The chef, Anatole, told me that each dish was prepared with an award-winning sauce of his own invention, which I thought was an unnecessary extravagance for creatures that habitually lick their own bottoms.
Felix then showed me to a room where all the cats would meet for group therapy sessions. It was a safe environment where they would sit in a circle and discuss their problems, their fears and share their hopes and dreams. When I said that I didn't know that cats could talk, Felix told me that they could say one word, 'miaow', but that the way they said it could express a multitude of different meanings to the trained ear. Which apparently was what he had: a trained ear.
He also showed me the gymnasium, where I saw cats leaping over vaulting horses, climbing ropes, doing push-ups and all sorts of other jigging about. He told me that physical exercise was an important part of their rehabilitation. "It's also important for... other reasons," he added, not at all suspiciously.
He then showed me to the guest bedroom, where I could stay while my cat was receiving treatment. It was bare and unfurnished except for a plank on which I would sleep, and a bucket in the corner for the purpose of night-time widdling. It was quite scary, so I backed myself into the corner of the room, where I shivered and blew hot bubbles out of my nose.