This is the first draft of an idea I’ve been chasing around the garden. It’s not yet in a form suitable for a picture book, but it is a fun read. Strike back with comments and let me know your reaction.

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Cynthia Sloan was all alone because Cynthia Sloan liked cats.

More than that, Cynthia Sloan loved cats.

More than that, Cynthia Sload wanted to be a cat.

The trouble was: there were no cats where Cynthia lived, only cows.

There were cows everywhere.

There were no cats anywhere.

Cynthia Sloan didn’t like cows.

Cynthia Sloan liked cats.

With no real cats to be found Cynthia did what any sensible, cat-loving person would do. She invented some of her own.

Hot tempered cats like the Ginger Bomb.

Whining cats like the Prussian Mew.

Weepy cats like the American Sobtail.

Clever cats like the Siamese Wins.

Lots of cats, everywhere.

Look, she might say, it’s a Shabby Tabby.

There goes Cynthia Sloan, people would say. She’s seeing cats again.

Moo moo MOOOOO, the cows would say. Moo moo mOo.

Oh how Cynthia longed to see a real cat.

Then, one day, she did.

In fact, the cat Cynthia Sloan saw that day was not just any old cat. It was a special cat. It was a giant cat. It was a legendary cat. It was a…

…CATSQUATCH.

And there was only one of those in the whole wide world.

Look, shouted Cynthia Sloan, It’s a CATSQUATCH.

There goes Cynthia Sloan, people said. She’s seeing cats again.

Moo moo moooo, the cows said, moo moo (moooo mooo).

It’s true, she said. It’s a Catsquatch.

But when she looked again, the Catsquatch had gone. And Cynthia Sloan was all alone.

I’ll prove it, said Cynthia Sloan. I’ll catch the Catsquatch.

Of course, catching a 12 foot high, 42 stone beast of legend is actually harder than it sounds.

So she began simply by rubbing her fingers. Here kitty kitty, she whispered.

There goes Cynthia Sloan, people said. She’s seeing cats again.

The cows had nothing more to say on the matter.

The Catsquatch was not playing ball.

Playing ball, Cynthia thought. That’s it. Cats like balls. I’ll set a trap.

It took a while, and the ball was big, but the Catsquatch was nowhere to be seen.

There goes Cynthia Sloan, people said. She’s seeing cats again.

Moo moo, said the cows.

I saw a Catsquatch, said Cynthia. I did.

Cynthia needed a better plan.

Like hiding in an old bin. Cats were always knocking bins over.

Like covering herself in smelly fish. Cats loved fish.

Like rolling in bits of fur and dressing as a mouse. Cats loved mice.

Like covering herself in leaves and standing as still as a tree. Cynthia’s imaginary cats loved sleeping under a tree.

Nothing worked. The Catsquatch was not going to be caught.

There goes Cynthia Sloan, people said. She’s seeing cats again.

Moo, said the cows.

Moo off, said Cynthia Sloan.

Mooo, said the cows.

Ooo mooo, said Cynthia Sloan.

Cats don’t like cows. But they do like milk!

Cynthia Sloan found the biggest bucket she could and filled it with creamy, lovely, milk.

And then she sat perfectly still and waited.

And waited.

MOOOOOO, said a cow. Cynthia Sloan jumped… INTO the milk.

Rats, she said. I’ll never catch the Catsquatch.

Cynthia Sloan was all alone.

She smelled of old bins and fish. She had bits of fur stuck to her like a mouse. She was dripping with milk.

She was perfect.

Perfect for Catsquatches.

From that day on, Cynthia Sloan and the Catsquatch played together, rolled around together and ate together. And the Catsquatch would lick her clean.

There goes Cynthia Sloan, people said. She’s with the Catsquatch again.

Meeooo.

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Illustration courtesy of, and copyright, Dave Kennedy. Follow him on Twitter.