Hiatus again - my landlord wants to sell the house I'm renting and has had three viewings to date. I don't think there's much mileage in moving the Shed-Dwellers here if faced with moving them in short order. A house has come up for rent up in the same road as this one, but much nearer the square and the shops. I'm bloody bored with slogging up this hill everyday and the thought of not having to has become a leit-motif. And having the mogs with me is the other driving force: we had a huge storm last Monday (11th May), the worst since I've lived here.

On an evening that I go to the bar, en route to the Shed, I tend to the cats late in the day thus killing two birds, etc. I spend longer with them than I normally do and then have three or four beers on the way back. The thunder had started late afternoon and was rumbling like a distant barrage from the south; by the time I left home, sometime after seven, it was getting gloomy and lightning was flickering along the horizon. Great fat splats of warm rain spat in the dust as I crossed the bridge and intensified the nearer I came to the refuge. I texted a friend saying I knew I should have done the cats earlier. After spending a happy hour or so cleaning, feeding and fussing, it was too dark to walk around safely inside. I finished up inside, tidied up in the pen, and refreshed their water bowls - with Mother Nature in full Gotterdammerung mode. Discretion being all that it is, I scurried off to the pub.

We've had some corkers here but this was a genuine prize-winner. Hail like marbles, houses flooded, windows and tiles broken. Branches torn down, the air thick with leaves, drain and manhole covers swept from their mountings. Marooned in the bar... oh bummer. After the hail and gale subsided - though there was still torrential rain - I buttoned up and left to check on the Shed. Fabrice, the barman, was somewhat surprised: the rest of the bar had mops and buckets and were bailing. I told him I had to check on the cats which elicited a grunt of, possibly, disbelief.

A long uphill wade later, sheltering where possible, I reached the Shed. The pen was indistinguishable from its surroundings; it was absolutely plastered with leaves and wood and grass. Of the cats there were no signs but, then again, not even this bunch would be silly enough to stay out in those conditions. Inside it was dry and warm, it may have been expensive, but it's very well built. And its occupants were, of course, safe and sound, just a little more vocal than usual. I squelched home, rescuing and returning one of the pub chairs which was on its way to the river.

The next day I took Beast and Freeman, Hardy and Willis up there. The landlord had arranged a viewing and there were more cats in the house than he'd have been happy about. In any case they were overdue for the transfer so I took the opportunity of a lift to take them up. I left them in their boxes, with the doors off, inside the Shed so the others could inspect the new arrivals. This is what'll be referred to as Day One of the Squabbles. I was back up in the afternoon to check on them and pick half a ton of leaves and other crud off the roof and walls of the pen. Oh dear, they were not happy campers... Inside Hardy and Willis were still in their boxes whilst Freeman was hiding under some bedding. Beast was taking on all-comers - which appeared to be everyone. I left them to it after ensuring that no-one was really, really trying to cause mortal injury. There was a lot more noise than motion to be honest - and some making far more noise than others.

Day Two: ditto, except Hardy and Willis were out of their boxes, so I stacked them out of the way.
Day Three: more of the same except the food trays were empty which was a good sign... they were spending more time feeding than fighting.
Day Four: the swearing and cuffing had stopped. Making a fuss of as many as possible enabled both Beast and Freeman to sidle up and get involved as well without anyone hanging one on them.
Day Five: well, there wasn't a one. I'd slipped on a stair that morning trying to avoid the idiot Sus and jarred my back and shoulder and effectively ended play for the day.
Day Six: peace had broken out. The food trays were empty again, hardly a surprise after their fast the day before; refilled bowls brought everyone together in what could pass for harmony. Six days for the Dwellers to adjust to four new cats - quite impressed with that, actually.

Meanwhile, back at the house... Flatpak was in temporary residence as he had a nasty attack of diarrhoea. Gus, Newbie and Dru had licked grease for a pan and didn't seem capable of moving more than a few feet from the litter trays without something horrible happening behind them. This is what you need when people are coming to view the house.

I took Flattie to the vet as the reason for his trouble was unknown. One of things he was prescribed is Smecta, which is what the doctor prescribed for me in case my diabetes medicine disagreed. One thing I'm not short of is Smecta... of course I don't take it as I've not had any stomach upsets. Well, not until the other day when the drive to Savigne to collect the biodegradable cat litter became a white-knuckle ride to prevent an upholstery catastrophe.

Needless to say, the medicine needs to be administered by a needle-less syringe into the mouth - as there's more chance of me winning a lottery a day for a week. And it has to be given twice a day... even Fatnip and Demi have taken to hiding from me.

En fin...Fatnip and Gus finally called a truce once the former accepted the new arrival was not a major rival. Peace was declared after a confrontation over a shared lap: 24lbs of tabby went head-to-head in a confined and sensitive space. Actually, I won, as neither have fought since.

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, looking for a woman, and mutters darkly about not buying that micro-brewery when he had the chance. *think Superman's costume...