They called me Whiskers, but in my head I was The Terminator, rat and mouse zapper extraordinaire.
Master had always paid me my dues with gourmet cat food, until his employees at the flour mill went on strike on health and safety grounds, after the death of a worker from respiratory disease.
Following a fortnight’s standoff, Master downgraded my dinners to the supermarket’s own brand. Fine punishment, considering my workload had increased. So I went on strike, too.
The last I saw of Master, he was a skeleton, the rodents had trebled in size, and I took instant early retirement.