2009 started with a bout of flu contracted on Boxing Day '08; it finished with the threat of amputation hanging over my left big toe like the bone-saw of Damocles. The bits in between didn't shine much either. So, will 2010 be any different, any better? Well...

Last week I had a visit from the gendarmes following up on an accusation of cat-napping. Sounds like a good start, eh? This stems from a conversation I had the previous week with one of my ex-neighbours from Chemin de Chez Pinguet where the Shed was located. She stopped me to ask if I'd seen her cat as it had gone missing. This was the second one to have disappeared in a couple of years. I'd seen them both playing in her garden then only one and now this one too had vanished. I assured her I hadn't seen it for quite some time, that I'd keep an eye out for it, but that I'd finished with Bourpeuil and moved. All cats chez Pinguet were now chez moi.

I understood how she felt: it's bad enough to lose a pet but when you don't know its fate it's even worse. I was, I thought, very sympa. Obviously not...

I got home from the shops the other day and, as I unpacked, heard a vehicle pull into the yard at the back. Looking out I saw a gendarmerie van with three cops in it. Seconds later my neighbour was out to see what was going on - if she could cover the 100m in the same speed as she got from her side door to the van, France would hold Olympic gold for ever.

Her next move was to turn supergrass and point to my place. I went out and everyone "bonjoured" each other. The neighbour moved reluctantly away leaving me and two gendarmettes (a female gendarme, I believe) and a gendarme.

One of the gendarmettes pulled a photo from her breast pocket and asked me if I had the cat in the picture.
No, I replied, definitely not.
She pulled another photo from her pocket and showed it to me.
No, I hadn't got that one either.
She said it was the same cat as the first photo.
Really? Really.
Well, I still didn't have it.

There was something familiar about the background to the picture, the blue of the shutters was niggling me. Did the cat belong to the woman who lived on the corner of Chez Pinguet? They didn't confirm it verbally but their glances were enough. I explained I'd spoken to her only recently and made it clear I hadn't seen it for a while. I took the opportunity to stress that I only rescue cats when asked to (Freeman, Hardy and Willis, and Gus and Ix); if they were clearly strays, or in need of medical attention or with kits - or a combination of...

The gendarmes departed, whether satisfied or not remains to be seen. I should have, of course, invited them in to check the ex-Shed Dwellers over, which would have settled it once and for all. Instead I sat inside, fuming with anger and considering legal action. After a cup of that great British calmative, tea, I changed my mind, opting to not provoke things any further.

But...something odd is going on up there as the neighbour opposite this one has also lost two cats, one very distinctively marked with black fur under its nose and which I christened Kitler. He'd gone and so had his replacement - four cats in a couple of years. I don't think anyone is stealing them but it is rural and the possibility of them being poisoned or shot by farmers or even the local hunt is a strong one.

Marie stayed over Xmas and New Year; it was nice to have company for a change. There was one night when we went to bed not speaking and that, of course, was cat-related. The Shed Dwellers had been moved back to the Shed temporarily so only Fatnip, Gus, Demi and Dru, and Kitten Ix remained. After supper I'd been shutting them in the kitchen/diner with a bed by the wall-heater - an arrangement with which they were quite happy.

On the night in question instead of been shut downstairs they'd been allowed to carry on upstairs, encouraged to play and finally fall asleep on the bed. Thinking Marie had had a change of heart I didn't think of shifting them. However right at bedtime she decided hey had to go downstairs. I could sense a problem but kept my counsel for the time being. Gus and the girls and Ix went OK and settled into their heated bed without demur. Fatnip was having none of it.

The first inkling Marie had of trouble was a panel-rattling crash against the bedroom door. What was that? Fatnip.
What's he doing? Playing Suduko (no, I didn't say that but it was blatantly obvious what he wanted).
Crash. Pause. Crash. Pause.
How long will he do that? He has no plans tomorrow, so all night. If I shut him in the kitchen, he'll do the same with that door and it has glass in it.

He was allowed in but hadn't quite finished. Normally he throws himself down against me, preferably with an arm to lie on or hold him, and goes to sleep immediately. This time he rumbled away to himself for about twenty minutes while I tried quietly to shush him. Eventually the triumphant purring stopped and the licking began. I've never come across a cat SO devoted to cleaning; I swear he even washes himself in his sleep. Shine a spotlight on him and he'd sparkle like a disco ball...

It was a long and not so silent night. Except between Marie and me - the silence was deafening. Cats!

PS I was too cynical too quickly about progress. I went to speak to Amanda, who's wading through the bureaucratese for the Association, the charity, we want to create. To be honest, I wasn't sure there would be much progress what with the holidays, three children, etc. Which serves me right - off to the sub-prefecture in Montmorillon on Friday morning to register it.

Tim Hurrell is an English expat living in the Poitou-Charentes region of Western France. He regularly pulls his underwear over his jeans* to rescue the local stray cat population, of which he has 29 in various stages of age and health. He continues despite poor judgement and worse luck - occasionally he's able to blame someone else. Plans to open to a boarding cattery to supplement the rescue work are temporarily on hold. He's writing a book, pressing on with the cats, and mutters darkly about not buying that micro-brewery when he had the chance. *think Superman's costume...