Exclusive: My life with the Myersons – a cat's eye view

Kitty, the family moggie, opens her heart to tell the story behind the year's most controversial memoir
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The Independent Culture

First of all, I never wanted to get into a war of words with my family. All this "he-said", "she-said" stuff has really been doing my head in. I've tried to be the bigger cat, stuck my tail in the air and kept my head down. But it's hard when your mum's telling lies about you in the papers and your parents kicked you out of the house for no reason. It's all right for them with their book deals and their newspaper interviews. I'm a cat. Who's going to give me a voice?

Take Julie Myerson. She wrote this book, The Lost Child, which was supposed to be about some kid from the 1800s who died of consumption (I know, I mean, yawn) but which turned out to be all about her son, Jake, smoking loads of skunk and eating breakfast in his underpants. Which strikes me as perfectly fine, actually, since I got to kip on his lovely cashmere pyjamas – but you'd think that he had hit her or something. Well, actually, he did hit her, but we all know he was provoked. You should have heard the way she went on at us: don't play loud music at 4am; you shouldn't have got that girl pregnant; is that your dirty claw marks all the way up the drawing room curtains?

What really bugs me is not that they chucked us out. I can see why a lot of parents would do the same – if they were mental. No, it's that they're making us out to be some kind of junkies. It was bad enough when she had that "anonymous" newspaper column, Living with Teenagers. Living with Cats and Taking Advantage, more like. One column was even called "Eddie's Cat". "He doesn't seem to care very much about anyone else these days," she wrote. I can't tell you the kind of stick I got at cat school after that.

The book, though, was the final straw – talking about finding me in that squat where Jake had left me. "I lift her and her black legs with the little white socks hang heavily," she wrote, as if I'm some kind of lard-arse Whiskas guzzler. "She wobbles down the back steps like a drunk." I mean, fucksake, Mum – drunk? So I enjoy a bit of catnip now and again. It hardly means I'm out of control or anything. Don't they recognise normal feline high jinks when they see them? God, my parents are so uncool.

To be honest, though, I expected as much from Mum with her writing, and Dad with his tedious war-on-drugs. Jake, I'm disappointed by. We were a team, that's the thing, ever since I jumped out of that box on his sixth birthday and he nearly wet himself with excitement. Not for the last time, eh Jake? Oh, you learn a lot about a boy when you sleep on his pillow. And he needn't think I've forgotten that time when he was seven and he cut off all my fur.

Now he's had a few poems published in his mum's "controversial memoir" and the newspapers are begging for his opinion, what does he care about his old pal Kitty now? He's just had a family meeting with his brother and sister, he told one reporter. What about me?

What nobody seems to realise is that I'm the one with all the talent in this family. And I know where the bodies are buried. Just wait until my blistering autobiography is published (£17.99, Bloomsbury) and we'll soon see how they feel about ignoring my feelings. I'll tell you a few things that will turn them all to drugs.

As told to Katy Guest