Cat lovers get their claws out for me

Afew weeks ago, I wrote about the sinister gang of fat cats stalking my garden. As I write, the sun is shining but I can’t sit out because one of the bosses is lying in the middle of the grass, with his back to me. I know what you’re thinking — shoo him away. But you don’t know London cats. Trust me, he won’t scram like any regular non-gangster pussycat, instead he’ll slowly strut away while giving me large amounts of “you’re lucky I let you live here” side-eye.

I’m not the only one these cats intimidate. Last winter I bought a bird feeder from the National Trust and hung it near the shed. Radio reports said birds were desperate for food because of the cold weather, but not one single birdie came. Why? Because even with their petit pois-sized brains they knew they were going to be maimed by trained assassins if they flew within 10 yards of that birdseed.

Anyway, no one who read the column seemed perturbed that I am living in fear and may turn into a Howard Hughes-style fingernail-growing, peeing-in-a-milkbottle hermit because of these demon cats. Instead, everyone took the cats’ side (are they paying you off? Tell me!) At the end of my cat rant, I made a comment about getting Shakespearean-style revenge on my feline foes by poisoning their food. This has upset some people, and if any cats read it, I’m sure they are furious too.

To set the record straight: I do not want any cats to die, I just want them to stop dealing drugs or whatever they are doing in my garden. I have been a vegetarian for almost a decade and an animal lover all my life. I use a humane spider catcher for Christ’s sake. So please, put the claws back in and I’ll try to find a way to live in peace with these morbidly obese furballs.