Tattooed neck and arms, grumpy cat t-shirt

"Annoyed kitty," Ottoline told her, because the boater in the next boat was listening and she liked to give him something to chew on. "Touchy kitty. Grouchy ball of fur."

The boater, a man called Harold Vane who wore his cap like a bishop, laughed and said the animal ought to be sent to the knacker's yard. Ottoline did not argue. She had heard the same from the lock-keeper, from her sister, and from a tench that had once taken a bait and spat it out in disgust. Mabel had never been wrong about a person yet. One winter she had sat on the bench outside the chandlery and hissed at a man who turned out to be selling the village's church bell by the pound.

At the top gate the water stilled. The cat stood, stretched one back leg with great reluctance, and leapt to the towpath, where a small boy had dropped his kite string in the nettles. She took the string in her teeth and dragged it back to him, scowling the whole way, as if the entire business had been his fault.

Ottoline painted the rhyme on the cabin side that evening in white, one line for each complaint. Grrr, grrr, grrr she finished, and underneath, smaller, she added the boy's name, because the cat would never have wanted the credit.