(A new chapter, a new trial. And for the next few days it's cat stories. This one's about cats that fight, cats that shouldn't and owners that rush to the rescue)
"What!" I sprang from my pillow, engaging automatic pilot on the way down, one leg in a pair of jeans, the other still asleep.
What the hell was happening?
"Cat fight!" screamed Shelagh once more from some dark place on the other side of the bed.
An awake eye peered at the clock - 1:35 - the middle of the night. That's why it was so dark.
I staggered across the room in search of slippers ... or the light switch ... or possibly the window. Brain was not quite sure. Legs were even less so. Especially the solitary one, half-buried in a pair of jeans.
I fell down. It seemed a sensible course of action. And it gave Brain an extra few seconds to arrive at an explanation.
Something about a cat fight?
A strange yowling noise burst in through the open window. Oh my God! Now I remembered. The Black Cat! Both our cats had been injured in fights, Guinny had had to have stitches, Gally had limped for a week.
I stopped struggling with the trousers, threw them off and staggered arms out-stretched through the gloom towards the bedroom door. Which immediately flew back and met me halfway - Shelagh had got there first.
Closely followed by Gypsy.
I was somewhere in between. Dazed, confused, half-asleep and under attack from a playful puppy. A predicament lent a considerable piquancy when it's pitch black and your clothes are on the other side of the room.
I grabbed my dressing gown from the back of the bedroom door and stumbled into the hallway, trying to fight off Gypsy, get dressed and find a light switch all at the same time.
And then there was light. At least for a short while - our hall light being on a timer carefully designed to extinguish itself ten seconds before you really needed it to. Like when you're desperately trying to unlock the front door and find your shoes at the same time.
And there's nothing quite so unexpected in a dark hallway as a cold nose slipping under your dressing gown as you bend over in search of shoes.
Strange nocturnal noises wafted in through the cat flap.
Whereupon I was admonished - told to stop playing with the puppy and go save our cats!
As if I was trying to do anything else.
Gypsy continued to bark and boldly go places where noses hadn't and shouldn't have gone before. I struggled with the door, it opened, I fell out, Gypsy's lead was thrust into my hand, plaintive yowling drifted in from my right ... and then we were off. Man and dog sprinting across the fields towards the sounds of battle.
"It's coming from over here!" I shouted over my shoulder as I plunged through the stubble of last years maize crop.
"Is it Gally?" shouted Shelagh.
It was difficult to tell, it was coming from such a long way off. Not so much in the field as over the far hill.
And was it a cat?
I stopped. And listened.
Wasn't that a cow?
I looked back at Shelagh, standing on the patio bathed in the glow of the outside light. An anxious figure staring fieldwards, flanked by two interested cats.
I looked at Gypsy. She smiled and wagged her tail; this was what life should be like - faithful hound and master stride out into the night to hunt cows by moonlight.
I was not so enthused.
(next instalment: The Black Cat)