Fun blog from about a walk he did on Dartmoor …

I was trying unsuccessfully to find some picture hooks so I thought I’d have a look in a drawer in my garage. I’d not been in there for several weeks and, by opening the door, I managed to disturb a sleeping cat. I’m not sure who was more surprised: me, or the sleeping cat. We both did a little jump and the cat escaped through a hole in the back wall. I hadn’t been aware that my garage had a hole in its back wall, nor that it had a cat living in it, and both these things made me think I should make an effort to get to know my garage better.
The cat wasn’t one of mine but a chunky tabby stray with a vertical war paint stripe on his nose who’s been hanging around my garden and the countryside surrounding it since late August, spitting cusswords at my three male cats and periodically trying to bang the female one. At first I’d assumed, going on his tumble dryer-soft fur and athletic good looks, that he was what feline enthusiasts tentatively call “owned” but time has proved otherwise: none of my neighbours know who he is and, as the weeks have passed, his 3am meowing sessions outside my bedroom window have become more keening and forlorn. He was almost approachable when I first met him but, having mistaken him for a spoilt thug, I chased him off a few times, waving the bill for the damage he’d caused to the nose of my own tabby, Ralph. Since then, he’s become less amenable but no less ubiquitous. I feel bad, and I’d like to catch him and find out if he’s microchipped, but I don’t want another cat. I never really intended to have four in the first place. All that happened was that over a period of years various ones kept looking at me in a sweet way that made me let my guard down and, before I knew it, there they were, permanently in amongst my knitwear and clean bedding, shitting it up in their multifarious ways.