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WHAT ARE YOUR THOUGHTS? COMMENT ON OUR FACEBOOK PAGE OR TWITTER AT WWW. SCOTTISHFIELD. CO.UK moggie-admirers would like a new shelter for strays, next he was off to examine the contents of another will offering untold riches to any organisation promising to spend it only on cats.

It seemed a helluva job – certainly better than being at the beck and call of those horrible whips in the House of Commons. Our ex-MP didn’t mind telling us about his new job, but he did make us promise that we wouldn’t reveal that this saviour of felines wasn’t an altogether straight-dealing animal lover. How could he be when one minute he was blasting away at the monarchs of the glen on Perthshire hills and the next he was going to the ends of the earth to save all those hard-done-by pussy cats?

Mind you, in my experience there ain’t too many of the latter. ‘Hard done by’ is an expression that does not apply to cats; not in my neck of the woods. Let me explain. A couple of weeks ago I developed a pain in my right heel that grew worse, to the extent I couldn’t walk on it.

Visits, in order, to the podiatrist, the pharmacy, the minor injuries clinic at the Western General and a sports physiotherapist who caters to athletes (no sniggering please) resulted in a great deal of sympathy, a lot of strapping and instructions to dose myself with pain-killers and keep the sore foot propped up.

Easier said than done in a house where ailments, certainly of the male variety, are not recognised for long. I managed one day of magnificent, if painful, repose before I detected an impatient, even suspicious, attitude from the ladies of the house. And when I did get out, there was never any question of them waiting for me as I hobbled along yards behind them.

Then, all of a sudden, there was a dramatic change for the Crippled Cochranes. Not this one, but for a certain Dougie of that name, a large ginger tomcat who is master of all he surveys chez nous. He began to develop a limp and immediately alarm bells rung. The phone bills between Edinburgh, Manchester and London (where my daughters were by this time) began to rocket as regular health bulletins on Dougie’s condition were relayed.

I was enlisted as ambulance driver as Dougie was placed gently on the back seat of the car and driven carefully to the vet. There it was quickly ascertained that he’d come off worse from one of his many fights. He got an injection, my wife was provided with pills to crumble into his meals and after paying the hefty bill we took the warrior home. There his every move is scrutinised and the conclusion, to much rejoicing, is that he’s very much on the mend. Hallelujah!

Me? Oh I’m still hobbling about; that sofa and cushion where I propped my sore foot, nothing more than a happy memory.

I’m definitely coming back as a cat.