The Neighbour Stopped Visiting Granny Violet and Spread a Rumour that She’s Lost Her Marbles in Her Old Age Because She’s Keeping a Wolverine or a Werewolf

Mrs. Ethel Morgan lived alone in a cosy cottage on the edge of a Kent village. One rainy afternoon she stumbled across a tiny, sootcoloured kitten shivering behind her vegetable patch. Being the gentle soul she was, she scooped the little furball up and tucked it close to her chest while the wind howled outside.

The cottages old stone oven, fresh with kindling, crackled merrily, sending warm splinters of heat into the kitchen. Soon the kitten, now snug as a bug, began lapping the milk that Mrs. Morgan had carefully warmed for it. The house, which had grown rather quiet since her husbands passing, suddenly felt lively againthere was finally someone to chat with.

The kitten purred contentedly, batting at a woolly ball as Mrs. Morgan knitted socks and, on a whim, a pair of mittens. Word of her knitting prowess travelled fast through the village, and before long a steady stream of shoppers came by, each leaving with a skein or two.

As the weeks rolled on, the kitten grew into a hefty tom named Whiskers. He patrolled the garden like a seasoned ranger, catching mice and the occasional rat, and leapt onto the apple trees with the grace of a catacrobat. Mrs. Morgan never gave a second thought to his eccentric habits; she simply called him Whiskers and he answered with a friendly meow.

One sweltering summer day, while Mrs. Morgan was picking raspberries and blackcurrants, she heard a low hiss. Looking down, she spotted a massive adder coiled in the garden bed, ready to strike. Her legs turned to jellyshe was far too old to scramble onto a table and confront it.

Before she could even gasp, Whiskers sprang into action. In a flash he lunged at the snake, tangled with it, and after a brief tussle flung the reptile up onto a nearby oak. The adder, bewildered, slithered down the trunk and, by sheer misfortune, landed on the garden fence of Mrs. Parker, the nextdoor neighbour, where it let out a squeal fit for a pig. Whiskers, however, seized the moment, snatched the snake back, and strutted away as if nothing had happened. Mrs. Parker, who had never seen such a daring feline, decided shed had enough of visiting Mrs. Morgan, spreading gossip that the old lady must have gone off her rocker to keep a creature that looked more like a wolverine than a cat.

Undeterred, Mrs. Morgan continued to dote on Whiskers, petting him as he curled up on the rug beside her bed. He loved prowling through the thick grass, sometimes even taking a nap in the heat, but always returned home when dusk fell.

One night, after a modest pension of £150 a week had arrived, Mrs. Morgan fell asleep with the bedroom window halfajarshe trusted Whiskers to watch for any nocturnal wanderings. Through the opening, two local drunks, knowing shed just received her pension, slipped in, their heads sloshed with cheap lager. They gagged her with a towel, thinking it would keep her quiet.

When they tried to rouse her for information, the gag made her choke and sob. Startled, Mrs. Morgan shrieked, and the towel fell from her mouth. The intruders began turning the cottage upside down, but just then a massive, shaggy shadow leapt through the open window.

One of the thieves, eyes wide, shouted, Boris, is that you? Did you find something in the neighbours house? Shes only just got her pension!

The hulking blurlater recognised as a stray dog the villagers called Marlonsawed at the men, snapping at ones throat and then at the others eye, leaving them squealing like piglets. Blimey! An unholy beast! someone cried, as the creatures green eyes glinted in the halflight. Marlon darted from one thief to the other, while Mrs. Morgan, heart racing, yanked the towel from her mouth and flicked on the light.

The sudden illumination revealed the two drunken looters sprawled on the floor, one clutching his throat, the other his head, both drenched in their own blood. The cottage was a mess, but the worst part was a tidy little orange tabbyWhiskershissing ferociously, daring anyone to step closer.

Mrs. Morgan, still shaking, remembered the third accomplice who had fled into the garden sauna. The men chased him, beating him up until he surrendered. They rifled his pockets, recovered the stolen cash, and handed it back to Mrs. Parker, deciding against calling the constabularywhy bother when you can sort it yourself?

The thieves learned their lesson, swearing never to disturb Whiskers again. One of them, stammering, tried to claim the cat wasnt a cat at all, Its a aMAYHUN! he blurted, as if it were some TV catchphrase.

Mrs. Morgan, eyes flashing, gave him a swift slap. You wretched sod! How dare you insult my cat! she snapped. Youre the one whos a proper scoundrel!

And that, dear reader, is how a modest pension, a plucky kitten, and a very protective neighbour kept a quiet Kent cottage safe from a pair of drunken thieves. The end.