It’s funny how things go: I was sitting at the computer the other evening pondering what to write about this month. It had been quiet on the cat front and my energies were diverted into selling the land (not yet successfully) - and dealing with the diabetes (not yet successfully). This hadn’t been helped by the pharmacy giving me the wrong medicine!

My doctor phoned the other Saturday morning to say my bloods were back, were "very poor", and asked if I was taking my meds. I said I was, ‘S’ twice a day.

“Why ‘S‘?” She asked, sounding shocked. ”It’s very bad for diabetics.”

I thought it was a trick question; we were speaking English so it couldn’t be the translation. I replied it was what the pharmacy gave me. She said again it was very bad then asked, somewhat cautiously, how I was feeling. I felt like I should look for a solicitor but said I felt OK considering. I was down to the doctor's immediately to collect a new prescription for ‘M’ three times a day. This a medicine which Elaine, a diabetic friend, recognised as a good treatment, but I need to watch out for chest pains! Huh?!

As I said I was concentrating on my health more than the cats who were happily getting on with their lives with only the occasional worming to concern them. Then came a five-day flurry of activity which saw the Maison Miaow population reduced by one - and increased by three.

Sarah started the ball rolling on the Friday (5th Sept) when she emailed asking if she could have Noodle back before I left the country. She and Cyril had moved to a larger property with enough space for Princess Anti to have her very own “fortress of solitude” should she require. As she was scared of Cyril - first time round he’d bought her a wind-up pig which caused a major persecution crisis - and loathed Minette, his cat (the feeling mutual apparently), an area she can retreat to is a great idea.

Sarah turned up on a Friday afternoon and, after a chat and a cuppa, and a tour of the cattery, Stumpy von Noodle (to give her full name) was boxed and on her way. An email later said she’d settled in well after exchanging hisses with Minette and now adored Cyril - so long as he had treats with him.

I’d recounted the full details of the Le Vigeant / SPA saga (Maison Miaow August08) to Sarah, saying that I’d heard nothing since I wrote to Madame Guyonnet at the end of June so considered the matter closed. So it can came as no surprise that I got a phone call on the Monday morning asking for an onsite rendezvous for 10:30am on Tuesday.

I decided an early start was in order for Tuesday morning so I could give the place a real good blitzing - it’s pretty damn spotless at the best of times but I’d decided to go at it full bore. I was just leaving the house when Mme Guyonnet phoned worried about possible linguistic difficulties. I told her I had a dictionary and a notepad and, although the phone can cause problems, I was sure that face-to-face, vis-à-vis as it were, we’d manage. I was determined to lay this rest once and for all.

When Madame arrived I was sitting in the run, book in hand, with a lapful of ecstatic cats. One gold-plated guarantee is sitting down in the run will start Callie, Hugo, Buster, Kink, Rollo and Squeaker vying for position. Thus it was when she arrived: Kink, Hugo and Rollo had won out and were piled together in a rumbling heap. The others were eyeing any opportunities to squeeze in but with the three in situ all solidly built there were no gaps to exploit.

Madame Guyonnet had a good long look at the enclosure, and then the living / sleeping quarters, noting the food trays, the number of water bowls, beds, litter trays, access, ventilation, the works. Then she looked at the cats, sleek and glossy in the late summer sun. They basked, played, washed - behaving perfectly for once. Tigrou resisted slapping any of the younger females - and without Noodle stropping about it was even calmer.

We had a long chat about the mairie’s complaints; there were two. Firstly, that the cats were “abandoned”, and secondly I was running a business. I pointed out the immediate flaw: either the cats were abandoned OR I was running a business, not both. I told her I wasn’t in the business of abandoning cats but this didn’t translate well. She could see the cats were in perfect health and very happy and in no way could be judged neglected. She said that, according to the mairie, the cats were crying. I explained the cats will only cry if you go up to the run. Some, by no means all, like people and attention. If you walk along the lane by the land they can see you but stay quiet. They don’t know who you are and won’t draw attention to themselves. The only person they’ll cry at on sight is me. ** So, to hear the cats cry someone must have been on my land - uninvited and unwelcome. And that, I said, is trespass.

As to the second allegation I told her I was forced to write a letter in the mairie swearing I would not be running a business on the site. This she could go and see if she wanted. I made it very clear that all the cats were mine: they were born in the old house, or were rescued by me or other people, or collected from people as unwanted.

We parted on great terms, she said I was doing a marvellous job and it was a great shame that other people couldn’t look after their animals so well. The sun shone down brightly - I must have been bending over.

That was Tuesday, now for Wednesday. I had a phone from Evelyne in the evening asking if I drop in as she had a question. I was curious - and optimistic - as she’s rather attractive and hope springs eternal and all that. I was way off the mark.

One of neighbours, a man well-known for his drinking, had gone on a real bender and decided that cats were the roots of all evil and must be destroyed. As the row of houses from Evelyne’s upwards are home to multiple cats and kittens he wasn’t short of targets. After threatening to smack her in the mouth when she intervened he produced a pistol.

At this point, personally, I’d have called the police: a drunken gesture, a trigger-happy gendarme and we all live happily ever after, well, almost all of us. However, they’re made of stronger stuff and he was faced down and sent on his way. All this, I must add, happened much earlier and there was no sign on anyone toting anything more harmful than a clash of colours when I arrived.

She was very concerned about the wild kittens, three grey-and-whites and a black that lived in the barn by the convent school. Could I catch them and find them homes? How nice of me, I thought. No other volunteers then..? We drove up to the Shed and collected a large trap and a cat box. The trap was baited with biscuits and I was fed with beer and dried fruit. Sitting outside we were joined by other cat-owners: one girl arrived with another small grey-and-white; another arrived with a young cat the spitting image of Beastlie and surely his brother. Evelyne produced a tiny calico kitten she was hand-rearing as her she-cat already had one kitten on the teat but refused to accept an interloper.

Clang! A-ha. The trap had bagged a grey-and-white. He went into the box and down to my house. There he went into the iso cage. And I wandered back up the hill. This was repeated twice more as the grey-and-whites succumbed to free biscuits. The black actually went into the trap but it didn’t trigger and he went out again. He went in again but was followed in by an adult tabby that did trigger it. Unfortunately I had let them both go as the tabby was almost incandescent with rage and fear and the little one would have been hurt. He didn’t go near it again.

The three others stayed in isolation for a couple of days until I let them go inside the house. One is adapting very nicely but the other two remain very timid; all of them are feeding well and socialising well. However, having smaller cats running around gave Beastlie the chance to live up to his name and behave like a complete arse. He’s been in hunting mode for almost a week now…

** An excellent example of this behaviour one afternoon (17th). I was outside the run and just about to go in for the water bowls. The cats were squeaking with excitement in spite of the fact I’d already been inside and fed them and cleaned the trays. All of sudden they went quiet and still - they’d heard something. Sure enough, a rambler soon hove into view unaware he was the subject of twenty-one intense stares: twenty-two if you count me. As soon as he’d gone the noise kicked off again. Something weird happened too: a buzzard scored a direct hit on the roof of the run. There was the crash of an impact, a frantic flapping and it was gone. I don’t know if it scrapping or playing with another buzzard overhead, or if it was swooping on one of the smaller cats. Bob was sitting on her own on a plank and it may have mistaken her for prey. I had Buster, QT, and Rollo, all heavyweights, on my lap and they took flight as well. I could feel the blood through my jeans.

Tim Hurrell is a Brit living in the Poitou-Charente area of France. He's the confidante to seventeen (or so) cats, most of whom have been rescued. Tim's been battling bureaucrats to set up a cattery (a feline hotel) in his area. If successful, he wanted to expand it to include a rescue, rehab/re-home operation. The name is Maison Miaow, but construction has stopped and the property is for sale. (Ed: Idiotic bureaucracy defeats kindness to animals - for now.)