“THE cat has had our backbird,” announced the housemate bursting into the room where I was sneaking a crafty snooze.

“We haven’t got a cat,” I replied unwilling to take responsibility for more than is absolutely necessary.

“Ok, one of the cats which wanders through the garden has had our resident blackbird,” she replied.

“He’s lying on the lawn dead!”

“Ok I’ll go and have a look,” I said, preparing myself for a blood bath.

“There’s no sign of him,” I shouted down from the garden.

“Check the shrubs. He must have dragged himself to safety,” she replied.

“I thought he was dead…how could he drag himself anywhere,” I muttered poking gingerly into the undergrowth.

“Maybe he wasn’t quite dead,” snapped the housemate joining in with the rescue mission.

“Or maybe he’s absolutely fine and thinks that we’re completely nuts,” I replied pointing her in the direction of our friendly blackbird, who was watching us quizzically from the apple tree.

“Oh…well perhaps he was just sunbathing,” said the relieved housemate heading to the pond for a condition check on the fish.

Two days later I was disturbed once again by the same panic.

“The cat’s definitely had him this time,” cried the housemate in horror. “He’s splayed out on the dirt!”

“I can’t see him,” I responded.

“I can’t see him from here either so you go up the garden and I’ll go back in the kitchen and direct you,” she suggested.

“Ok,” I replied bracing myself for corpse recovery.

With one eye on the kitchen window and one searching for a massacre scene I worked my way around the lawn with the housemate gesticulating wildly to in an attempt to point me in the right direction.

“He’s right there,” she called finally abandoning her window semaphore to join me on the grass.

“He’s not,” I replied. “It’s really not him it’s just a bit of darker soil in roughly the shape of a bird.” “Well it really looked like the cat had got him this time,” said the housemate in relief as I glanced up at the blackbird gazing at me in sympathy from his familiar perch.

“It’s because so many cats wander around our garden,” said the housemate in an attempt to defend herself.

“I’m convinced they’re going to kill all the birds and eat all the fish.”

“Don’t talk to me about the cats,” I replied. “I’m the one who has to clean up all the poo before I can cut the grass!”

I was still moaning about our feline invaders later that day when The Mother arrived, with her friend who knows all about gardens.

“I don’t know what else to do to get shot of the bloody cats,” I complained. “I even planted this massive bush they’re supposed to absolutely hate,” I said pointing at the huge spread of purple in the corner.

“That’s nepeta,” said the friend who knows about gardens.

“I know,” I replied. “It a cat deterrent,”

“It’s cat heaven,” she replied rolling her eyes.

“It’s no wonder every cat in the neighbourhood turns up at your garden. It’s the pussy equivalent of Wetherspoons giving away free beer!”