Sue Arnold: I want to return as a genetically modified cat

'The prospect of living a life dedicated to garrotting, torture and murder is anathema'

In my next incarnation I should like to be a cat, more precisely our cat, Meg. That I shall be reincarnated goes without saying. My Burmese grandmother refused to visit us in England because, she explained, the aeroplane bringing her to London would have to fly over the pagodas, and, as a devout Buddhist, she would never place herself above her god.

Whether she would approve of my new feline identity is debatable. Chances are she wouldn't because my grandmother, Ma Shweh Ohn, was a frail, gentle creature who wouldn't hurt a fly and cats, ours in particular, are cruel, vicious, sadistic killers.

So why, you wonder, do I hanker to be a tortoise-shell moggy? Because I want to be contented, loved and at peace with the world and the only living creature I know who meets all these utopian requirements is the aforementioned Meg pride of the Schloss Arnold.

A week ago it would have been a different story. Being something of a gentle creature myself, the prospect of living a life dedicated to garroting voles, ambushing rabbits, molesting squirrels, torturing mice and murdering wrens is anathema.

Some times, listening to Meg purring contentedly on her pile of velvet cushions after a banquet of mole tartar, sparrow bisque and a couple of moorhen chicks I marvel that anything as beautiful can be so evil. For, owner's bias notwithstanding, she is a truly exquisite specimen, elegant as a catwalk model, graceful as a prima ballerina.

There is, however, a downside to this perfection. Nature bred in tooth and claw is one thing, but Meg's brand of calculated cruelty is something else. It transcends natural instinct; it's almost an art form. I've watched her stroke the quivering ears of a terrified fieldmouse with the tenderness of a mother before suddenly snapping its head off with her teeth.

I once saw her coming backwards through the cat flap, her front paws supporting a wounded baby bunny rabbit like a life guard rescuing a drowning child. She gently dragged it across the carpet and propped it against her favourite cushion with a gesture of concern that would have inspired Beatrix Potter to produce a whole new series of those mawkish anthropomorphic illustrations depicting cats in pinnies and Florence Nightingale caps.

If Meg had produced a thermometer and taken the rabbit's temperature I should not have been surprised. She didn't. She settled down, watched it for a couple of minutes and then ripped its stomach open with her claws, gouged out its innards, selected the best pieces to nibble and then retired to the window seat for a siesta.

And then a couple of days ago I read a piece about sneeze-proof cats. Scientists are apparently working on a genetically modified type of cat that will not make the 15 per cent of Britain's currently allergic to feline fur, sneeze violently every time one comes within spitting distance.

The idea is not as innovative as it sounds. In America interior designers have been commissioning cushion cats for house-proud clients who want them purely as furnishing accessories. Cushion cats don't sharpen their claws on chairs or leave fresh steaming mouse guts on the carpet. They don't pee in the fireplace or mark out their territory with that foul smelling spray that no amount of expensive air freshener will eradicate. They don't mark time on your lap with their claws ruining your tights because they don't have claws.

They don't do anything at all. They're cushions, colour co-ordinated to suit your sofa, and once you've put them in position they stay there all day, uncomplaining, inert, gorgeous. I dare say they have been inter-bred with giant sloths.

Here's my point. If cats can be genetically modified to stop people sneezing could they not also be programmed to love birds and teach mice to build their nests in the garden. Given the choice when I come back as a cat I'd much rather be kind than sneeze-proof.