Don't brush your cat with the yard broom

In which Harry Cat brushes with fate, two dogs meet their match, and much date and walnut cake is consumed

I have a confession to make. When I'm doing boring repetitive jobs I often sing to myself. Aloud. You know the kind of thing. Cutting grass, weeding, digging borders, sweeping paths, painting walls. Let's face it there are a lot of these jobs to be done around a house and garden. And I like to pass the time away by singing. It's worse than that, though. You see I have a very poor memory for the words of songs. Melodies, yes, no problem with melodies but when I say I know a lot of songs what I mean is that I recognize them when I hear them and can sing one or two lines of most of them. So, I make up a replacement text of my own as I go along.

On this particular morning, it was sweeping the paths and Evita. It was a grand, sunny morning. The postman had called an hour before, not with a letter but just to say hello, what a good day it was, and to see what the daft old Englishman alone in a Welsh valley was doing. Since then, the valley had been quiet. Just the occasional good-natured "bleeaah" from the sheep on the hill and a "hooompf" now and then from the horses in the field. Other than that, it was the birds and I, singing happily along to our own separate song-sheets.

I was doing quite nicely, the paths were getting close to being done, and Evita had got as far as "Don't brush your cat with the yard broom. He's hairy and won't like the bristles." And so on.

Cheerful, you wouldn't believe it. I was happy as a sand boy with a yard broom. My mind was wandering of course, with just the faintest of beginnings of "what shall I have for my elevenses" starting deep in my tummy.

"ZWOOSH!" With a leap and a bound a grey streak shot out of the hedge across the lane, through the open gate, between my legs and straight up the side of the woodshed without touching the walls.

I had the slightest of moments to register that it was Harry Cat before the hedge shook, parted, and revealed two hulking great collie dogs in hot pursuit. They almost had me over as they brushed past, dashed along the path and started trying to tear the woodshed apart in their eagerness to get at poor little Harry.

Well. There was Harry, hissing and spitting from his safe haven, dogs barking fit to raise ten Welsh devils, and me, gaping and feeling foolish, broom in hand.

What to do? "When in doubt, shout" is a good motto for life in the country, and shout I did. And waved my broom in the air.

It was a good shout. A very loud shout. If you spend a few years yelling loud enough for your voice to carry from one end of a valley to the other when it's time to get the cats in for supper you develop a good shout.

The dogs froze, momentarily horrified. One of them was Joss, a youngster from next door down the lane and the other I didn't recognize. Joss pulled back, tail tucked well in, trying to wag his bottom in friendship, a picture of abject apology. The other dog recovered its good spirits quickly and just stood there, tongue hanging out, panting, and obviously enjoying the whole thing.

Now the fun really started. I took my broom, waved it furiously, swept the dogs out of the yard and down the lane, all the while yelling and cursing in at least three different languages. Nobody, least of all two errant dogs, was going to disturb my peace and get away with it.

I chased them right down the lane to their own front gate and into their yard. Thank goodness Molly was out shopping or she'd have thought I'd finally flipped my tile. The dogs stopped. I stopped. Then I caught the funny side of it and howled with laughter till my sides hurt. Being fair to them, I think Joss and his friend caught the joke, too, and joined in the laughter.

"Just you leave my cat alone," I ordered, and marched back up the lane, broom over my shoulder, whistling a happy tune. Definitely, time for elevenses.

That was when I saw the vicar. It seems he'd just parked his car at the top of the garden and walked down only to be confronted with this daft old whatsit shooting out of the gate waving a broom, cursing to high heaven and chasing two dogs as if they were the hounds of hell.

"Impressive vocabulary you have there, John." His mildness was legendary.

Oops.

"Oh, Gosh! Sorry, James! Didn't know you were there…"

"Don't even try to explain. Not till we've got a coffee going anyway."

James loved to drop in now and again for half an hour of quiet chat and a few cups of fresh coffee. Soon we were sitting in the sun, coffee and humungous slices of my very best date and walnut cake between us, examining the dog chase and putting our small world to rights. With much laughter.

Harry put in a good act of nonchalance atop the woodshed. The birds sang. The sheep went "bleeaah". The horses went "hooompf". Peace had returned to the valley.

That evening I was swapping the news of the day with Molly on my way back from my walk. Joss was playing round her ankles and Joss's mother, for that was the identity of the other dog, was snoozing in the shade of the huge oak tree that dominates the farm yard, twitching the midges aside without waking.

Molly was highly amused by the story of Harry, two dogs, Evita and the vicar.

"You haven't got any of that cake left, have you?"

Molly's quiet practical nature, not to mention her healthy appetite for a good cake, has this grand way of putting a proper perspective on the day.

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