Funny, I really thought this month I'd be writing about building Shed MkII and making the enclosures but no...

Seeing me passing the Hotel Viaduc the other Wednesday Michel, the patron, called me over. He had a kind of furtive "Psst! Wanna buy a Rolex?" look about him so, suspecting something detrimental to my wallet, I primed my book of excuses and joined him. After the usual salutations he asked me a very strange question:
"Have you taken one of C's cats?"

I was so surprised I had to have him repeat it. Of course the answer was negative, even more so as I've know her for some time and would have returned any missing mog. I knew of the cat she'd lost back in 2007, and I sure as hell didn't have it.

Michel went on to describe the animal: a siamese-coloured tabby, another of the L'Isle Jourdain "sub-species". OK, it sounded like, but absolutely wasn't, Bobcat. He continued saying she'd taken a photo of the cat to the gendarmes and said that I had it. WHAT??!! I assured him I didn't have it and, as she lived opposite the bar, assumed he would pass the message on. Hah!

The following Saturday I was walking back to the new house when Nina, another cat fan, pulled up alongside. She said she'd had a French woman at her house asking for me in connection with a missing cat. I filled her in on the details; she told me Gary, her husband, had passed on my phone number. Before I could even think of thanking him for this blunder my mobile rang. I showed the number to Nina who confirmed it belonged to C; then I got a text message and another call immediately afterwards. In the interests of the entente cordiale I turned the phone off. At home there was a note stuck to the door, the rough gist of which was she'd gone for a walk which eventually brought her past the Shed. She decided to say hello to the cats and there - shock! horror! - was her Momia who came rushing over as soon as she heard her name. She thanked me for looking after her but couldn't understand why I hadn't told her as I knew how upset she'd been about the cat's disappearance.

Bearing in mind Michel's remark about the police I decided to collect as much proof of Bobcat's origins as I could. I found her vet registration booklet with the date of her vaccinations, printed off a list of cat DoBs, plus a photo of Bob herself. I phoned C and set off for her house.

Great minds etc...she had Momia's registration booklet and her photo. We discussed the problem very civilly but got nowhere really fast despite:
>Momia was born in June or July (I forget which) 2003, had been sterilised, and had lost part of her tail.
>Bobcat was born in September 2003, had not been done, and had a twisted stumpy tail caused by a birth defect. Oh, and looked nothing like Momia...

However C insisted we went to the Shed to examine her. Why not, after all it wasn't as if I was doing important like, oh I don't know, like continuing to move house for instance. At the Shed she went in to full Momia-enticement mode which left Bob understandably unmoved. I called her name and she was straight across for a fuss. Apparently this was because she'd forgotten her name during her two-year absence. I carefully repeated the facts but C had an unexpected solution.

For piece of mind, she said, she wanted to have Bobcat DNA-tested. I'll try to keep the WHAT??!! count low but really... DNA tests? WHAT??!!

She had Momia's brother who could provide a match. I raised Momia's brother by stating I knew Bobcat's mother (I do, a silver tabby called Tinkerbelle).

Bob's interest in the proceedings had been limited to watching us cautiously from the run, but she suddenly realised things were about to go cat-box-shaped...and reacted accordingly. In the past few years of dealing with cats I've only ever been bitten once and that was by the kitten Ix just a fortnight previously. Bob made it two in two in style.

She went through to the bone on the knuckle of my left index finger, which turned gloriously multi-coloured - and septic - in a couple of days. The phrase "sense of humour failure" began to ring true.

Bob, once boxed, was considerably calmer than I expected as we were driven to the vet where C explained the situation to the receptionist. I stood silent and expressionless except for my eyes which rolled occasionally. The receptionist went off to find a vet and one duly arrived. Again the situation was explained as Didier examined Bob. His first observation was that she was a young adult and not a mature one. I had Bob's booklet ready in case but it wasn't necessary. He went to examine her for spaying scars but she had other ideas, exploding suddenly from his hands and taking refuge underneath a chest of drawers. Didier bent down to extract but had a change of heart as she made her disapproval very clear.

He went off, returning with an armoured glove. Bob's nerve went and she legged it for better cover; as she passed me I scooped her up and placed her on the table, muttering "resistance is futile" under my breath. She behaved impeccably for the rest of the session. Didier's next comment was that there were no scars; I explained she hadn't the op yet. He looked at her tell-tale tail: birth defect he announced. Tilt. Game over...

A beer was bought for me, a sack of biscuits for Bob and the Shed, and we were given a lift home. It was all very amicable but very unnecessary and wasted about four hours which I could have done without. I felt very sorry for C, the chances of Momia turning up after all this time are remote. As for the gendarmes...that was Michel's attempt to cause alarm and despondency - bless him.

In the new house the indoor cats have settled in well: Gus and Fatnip are generally ignoring Ix, who in turn is avoiding Demi after she reacted badly to him attacking her tail when she was asleep. He did go for it with enthusiasm, all teeth and claws, but the beating he received has kept him wary of her ever since. Dru is stand-in mother as she's more tolerant than her sister.

Gus still suffers from wanderlust and took his chance one afternoon whilst I was out shopping. I'd left the upstairs window open and he forced the guard I fixed over the window to prevent escapes (DIY is still my strongpoint). He'd then jumped down into the grassy courtyard at the back and started exploring. I came back from the shops and unpacked the bags in the kitchen. This triggers a rush of feline interest and indeed four of the five were nosing in the bags and getting underfoot. Gus was noticeable by his absence, no snuffling or wheezing nor lurking by the fridge in the hope of a disaster.

I went upstairs and stripped off for a shower; at the other end of the landing there is a window overlooking part of the yard and the path leading to the garden. Along this path and heading in the general direction of away was Gus.

Struggling into jeans, going commando and topless, I stumbled downstairs trying to prevent my slippers from sending me headfirst down the flight. Out into the cold I went, bare-backed...bare-chested...er, bare-brained in pursuit. This alone caused comment from one of my elderly neighbours. Gus was out of sight, having turned into my other elderly neighbour's garden and her sole hen. Oh good...

On my approach, he moved off at a fair pace but at least it prevented those massive front paws yanking Henny-Penny through the chicken wire! He crossed the drainage ditch between her garden and an orchard with ease; unfortunately I couldn't and had to try and watch him and negotiate an easier crossing for me. At this point Nature worked for me and he stopped for an al frsco crap under a tree. He'd set off before I caught up though, heading towards a wall and a decision. Up and over and he'd be gone; left he'd be through a gate and into traffic; right would take him into thick undergrowth. He considered his option under a large bush which meant I couldn't see him when I arrived. Trying to keep any stress out of my voice I called his name: nothing.

"Gus! Gus, Gus, Gussy..." but still a stubborn nothing...except...what was that? The tip of his tail lay twitching in the long grass. His head appeared so I brought my left hand down for him to sniff. My right hand hovered over him but there wasn't enough cat to grab yet. I'd only have one chance. His hips and rear end came into view and... GOT YOU!!!

Scruff in one hand, hairy arse in the other, I carried him out of the orchard and into the garden. There he started to struggle, perhaps the chicken spooked him, but I'd had enough of his nonsense. All he got was a tighter grip on his scruff and the indignity of being dangled for the rest of the walk. There was another smart remark about my appearance from my neighbour. I waved Gus at her with one hand and beat my chest with the other. Hey, new house, new times..."

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...