You Will Make a Fine Pair of Mittens, Cat

Dot, our next-door neighbour, dropped in to return a DVD. "Your cat's been in that tree for a while," she commented.
Me, Mum and Malcolm looked at the cat.
"She's fine," I said. The cat sat in a fork in the tree, looking stupid. It does that a lot. To be fair, she does also fall off things a lot and so probably isn't the best cat to sit in thin, whippy branches at the top of a tall flowering cherry tree.
"She's stuck," Mum groaned, watching as a bird landed on the next branch and snickered at the cat. "Go do something."
I went outside and started climbing the tree. The cat eyed me smugly as if to say, you look absurd. I realise this is revenge for the mice.

Biscuit is on a one-cat mission to rid the world of mice. I don't have a problem with cats eating mice (it's what they're there for), but Biscuit doesn't eat the whole mouse. No-one likes finding a mouse head under the table first thing in the morning. It came through the catflap with a mouse the other night, undetered by me yelling, "No! Eat it outside!" and let it run around the kitchen for a while before it escaped into the lobby. Cat chased the mouse under the edge of the front door, and I shut the cat in the livingroom so I could get rid of the mouse. Easy, I thought. I opened the front door and the mouse weaved unsteadily down the pavement, fur sticking out at strange angles and soaked in cat dribble.
I was reading the next morning and heard a faint scrabbling noise. No, more like a mousey nibbling noise, and very nearby. At first I thought it was under the floorboards, but then I realised it was in the room. I picked up Mum's handbag, took it to the back door, and very carefully peered inside. In the front pocket there was a small (entirely different) mouse nibbling a tampon. It had the good grace to look slightly embarrassed. The cat came to see what all the fuss was about, saw the mouse - ah, that's where it went - and leapt at the bag. Tampons spilled all over the step and the mouse tried to escape again. I grabbed the cat in one hand and the mouse in the other, struggling to keep them in my grip. I threw the cat into the kitchen and slammed the door, clapped my hands together to stop the mouse escaping too close to the house and, still in my pajamas, briskly took the mouse to the bottom of the garden. It hid behind a terracotta pot and didn't ask for the rest of its tampon back, which is just as well. The cat had sulked all day and seemed to be planning revenge.

"You're a bloody stupid cat," I told it, wedging my foot against a sturdy branch. The cat hissed at me and wobbled.
"Be careful!" Mum squealed. I think she was talking to the cat.
I tried to pick up the cat. It growled and tried to get its footing in a knot of honeysuckle which bent under the weight. Time for the big guns. I took the secateurs from my back pocket and started pruning the honeysuckle around the cat, who watched me with utter disdain. With enough of the honeysuckle out of the way, I lunged for the yowling cat, scooped her around the belly and dropped her down to Mum.
"Ow! Look at that. Little besom," Mum wiped the scratches on her arm. I half-climbed, half-fell out of the tree. The cat fluffed her voluminous tail at me as if to say, now we are even. She stalked off in the direction of the field, her favourite hunting ground for mice.