Oliver bought the kitten in a pub, because he felt sorry for the tiny bundle of pale fluff.
Halfway home he was regretting the impulse, but he felt responsible so he braved a possible shitstorm.
Except his formidable mother took one look and fell in love. She stroked the kitten with her large, white hands and it fell asleep in her lap.
Tabitha became a fixture, and when Oliver married she stayed with his mother.
It wasn’t until the old lady died that anyone thought to wonder how a cat had lived for forty years. Or where she was now…