Until 2005, I had thought cat depression was a figment of overinvolved animal lovers' imagination. Ralph's "black dog" period of the summer before last changed all that. It is always heartbreaking to see your most majestic, manly pet hiding in a bush and crying like a little girl. When that bush also happens to be in the garden of your nextdoor neighbour, the heartbreak is even more acute. Fortunately, after a series of hormone injections, tasty beef-flavoured snacks and thorough goings-over with the JML pet mitt, my tabby is back to something approaching his old self. Nonetheless, he will always be a sensitive, artistic sort, susceptible to mood swings. It is all part of the package deal: yes, you get unaccountable wailing fits in the middle of the night, rampant vanity and celebrity tantrums relating to the closing of the boiler room door, but, to compensate, you get some of the deepest, most committed padding outside of a Mercedes interior, a natural love of the camera lense, and the rare visual treat of feline sideburns. "How can a beast covered from head to tail with fur have sideburns?" you may ask. If you continue to read this blog, you will learn the answer. Also to come in Ralph's much-hyped memoirs: "What exactly is a mouse moustache, and, if you have one, does it make you more or less likely to be gay?"

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