This was the home of a real coal fire. This was also the home of an old gentleman.

The old man gave Oliver lots and lots of fuss.

There was an endless supply of tinned salmon, and chicken on a Sunday.

The old man tickled Oliver's belly and let him sleep wherever he wanted, even in the middle of the racing page.

So, Oliver slept on the rug in front of the real coal fire all day, and on an electric blanket all night.

If he wanted a poo, Oliver didn't have to go out in the rain and snow, or even perch on the edge of a plastic tray. Instead, there was a full-size snooker table laid on for his convenience.

Time went by. Oliver got pampered all day, every day. And Oliver's fleas got pampered too.

The fleas laid lots of eggs and the eggs hatched. More fleas laid more eggs, which hatched into more fleas. Over and over, until Oliver was hopping. Even when he stood still.

One night, so itchy that he couldn't even sleep, Oliver finally admitted defeat. The fleas could have the rug and the electric blanket.