We have two cats, furry familiars who between them notch up eight legs, forty (forty!) claws, and more whiskers than is strictly proper. I probably haven’t introduced them properly, but they are Pyewacket, a black female cat aged about two or so, and Wixon, a black male who’s not long turned one. They came to us from the Cats’ Protection League, and we are delighted with their progress, particularly the wacket cat, who is virtually unrecognisable from the shy, cringing creature who arrived last November and promptly hid behind the television for the next few days.

However, while they are very lovely in many, many ways, recently, Wixon’s behaviour has started to become a problem. See, he was a tiny kitty, a veritable pusskin, when he arrived at only fourteen weeks of age, and we loved him, oh we did. We petted him, and we played with him, and we strokeded him, and so on until it was just sickening. And he purred. And purred. And purred. And purred so much that the vet had to make him sniff white spirit to stop him purring in order to listen to his heart. It was interesting. Not even vets get Wix down.

But… he’s always been a bit inclined to the old nipping. And recently it’s got rather worse. It was funny, at one point, when he used to stalk Quercus during the nightly expedition to shut up the chooks, not least because the way this happened went thus: Wixon hides underneath a dumpy bag which is currently covering up our cooker as it gently rots in the garden. Only trouble is that Wixon doesn’t realise that he is rather larger than he once was, and his tail sticks out, completely, obviously, and lavishly – he has a proper brush of a tail, and is altogether quite a foxy gentleman. So, then, he’d launch himself – surprise! shock! horror! – at Quercus’s legs as he walked past, making contact at roughly knee height, except, ah, yes, um, not that surprising, really, given the tail evidence. Anyway, the long and short of it is that he’s progressed from being a bit bitey to being really quite bloody bitey indeed. He walked over to me the other morning as I was about to feed him, waited until I wasn’t looking and calmly nipped me in the middle of one calf. And he waves his paws as if to grab one’s legs far too frequently for my liking. The worry is, of course, that he will decide that the witchling is far game as she blithely waves some part of her anatomy in his direction, and leap on her. Eeek. Doesn’t bear thinking about.

So, any ideas, o wise internets? Cat-training? More time spent with him? (I should add that he does get attention, and, whenever he’ll permit it without getting all frenetic and bitey, stroking and general furriness. He doesn’t get played with as much as he once did, though, and the two cats don’t seem to get on as well as they once did, either – they used to sleep curled up together on a sofa, but now Pye often growls at him as he comes in without even waiting for his usual string of transgressions.)