Shop for Cats

Weighted base, so it never stays knocked over.

Plays with them while you are at work.

Something to think about instead of the bath.

The one that never starts to smell.

For the ones who shiver on the doorstep.

Food and water, both at the right angle.

Turns a thirty-second meal into a five-minute one.

Running water is the one they will actually drink.

Sits at the angle their neck actually wants.

Cats drink more when the water moves.

Hang it on the wall, or leave it on the floor.

Ten minutes of calm, spread thin.

A light on the quick, so you can see where to stop.

Off the cat, off the sofa, off your jumper.

The layer that saves the sofa.

The tracker sits in the collar, not on it.

Tells the room it's safe.

Twelve compartments, four spinning layers, one meal.

A bed and a cave, depending on the mood.

The best seat in the house costs no floor space.

Vertical scratching, properly anchored.

It moves on its own. That is the whole trick.

The chase follows them around the house.

Sticks to the wall. Spins where they lick it.

Cut for a cat, not a shrunken dog.

Hands free, and they can see out.

They groom themselves. You do nothing.

Catches the litter before it reaches the hallway.

Scoop, seal, bin. No trip to the outside bin.

Dinner that rolls away from them.

A hiding place and a bed, in one 126 cm sweep.

Fifteen minutes of chase, then it stops itself.

Something to grab, bite and bunny-kick.

A meal they have to work their way around.

Press the button and the fur lets go.

A dark corner they can shut the world out of.

Cold without a fridge, a plug or a fan.

A bell, a charm and something to look at.

Pulls open into a bed, folds shut into nothing.

A light behind the nail, so you can see the quick.

The string goes back in, so it lives in a drawer.

A hopper that tops the bowl up as they eat.

Two decks of balls they can never quite get out.

Two dozen small things to find out what they like.

They move wrong, which is the whole appeal.

A small blade for the fiddly bits.

Wide and shallow, so nothing brushes the whiskers.

Ties on, washes, costs nothing to replace.

A long tail that keeps moving after the ball stops.

They can still eat, drink and see past it.

One sound that always means the same thing.

A scratcher with sides, so it becomes a bed.

A scratch pad with a game built into the lid.

Worth trying before you try anything stronger.

Blunts the claw without touching the cat.

Ties on, comes off, done.

For the ones who will not wear a costume.

Warm enough to still be worn in November.

Eight legs, none of them theirs.

Jewellery, not a collar. The difference matters.

The one everybody recognises instantly.

Twenty seconds of hat, and that is the point.

Ten designs, thirteen centimetres, one evening.

Two straps, no fabric on the body.

A hood, not a hat. Read that again.

A cape with a hood, which changes things.

Front legs only, hat attached.

Halloween for a cat that will not wear Halloween.

Open underneath, which is the whole idea.

One piece, pulled on over the head.

Clips the coat and swallows the fur before it lands.

Body, face, paws and nails, on one handle.

Drags the fur out of the weave. No refills, ever.