It is a standing joke that the local female felines are not exactly fast-moving, whiling away the minutes walking really, really slowly towards The Cat’s garden where some snacks may be available, hoping against hope that half a zebra or maybe some nicely filleted salmon might magically land in front of them before they have to expend energy by scaling the wall and risking coming face to face with the fierceness that is The Cat.

Visitor Cat arrived in The Cat’s garden in the winter, looking for food. At the time, The Cat was out on business in the surrounding fields and Visitor had time to clear the breakfast dish, have a sniff around and generally case the joint before leaving at her own speed. Slowly.

Maybe this lured her into a false sense of security. The similarities in appearance between her and The Cat were not the sign of any fond familial bond, as evidenced when The Cat clapped eyes on Visitor in the garden a few weeks later. There was a clatter as the wooden board the dry food is sprinkled on was used as starting blocks for Visitor Cat’s dash to the emergency exit, up a nearby wooden ladder. Her progress along the top of the wall to a safe corner where she could jump back into the field might have been classed as ‘walking pace’ for anyone else – for her it was the equivalent of an Olympic sprint.

The Cat’s garden appears to have the equivalent of three Michelin stars when it comes to feline dining. It is pretty irresistible. As is The Cat, especially when being a slave to her hormones. But that’s another story. Visitor Cat decided that the lure of the breakfast dish was too great. Maybe The Cat would be there, maybe not. It was worth the risk to Visitor Cat, all kittened up and expanding on a daily basis and very, very hungry. In she came, surprisingly agile in spite of her shape. Look left, look right. Safe? Then proceed. But The Cat was not in her usual place. She was under the water tank. In the dark. Well hidden. And she could see everything, the whole garden, all the comings and goings. Visitor Cat’s coming was brief. Her going was even briefer. The Cat shot out from under the tank like a bullet, her own kittened up shape proving no hindrance in her pursuit of this feline floozy. ‘How dare she enter my garden? Look at her, the tart. Begone, you loose woman!’ Two heavily pregnant, heavily furred cats, nose to tail, across the garden, up the vine, onto the wall. And officially out of the garden as far as The Cat was concerned. That would do. Nicely.