It was when the howls started, deep in the bramble patch, that I knew my morning was going to be interesting.

Down at the bottom of the garden, where I can't tread because of the undergrowth and the lack of paths, there's a wild part, set aside for the birds, butterflies and little creatures. It's a mix of scrub and saplings,mostly silver birch, not too large but a really nice place to be. A sort of asanctuary. Barring access to it for the present is a great tangle of brambles impenetrable to all intruders. When the garden contractors get here they're going to lay me a path, cut a gap, and put a door in it so I can wander in and enjoy the peace and quiet. There's a little level place right at the far end where I plan to have a small summerhouse so that I have my own sanctuary, away from the phone, the computer, the door-bell, and all possible interruptions.

In the meantime, it's a closed, secret place where no foot may tread.

No foot, perhaps, but there's no bramble patch on earth that presents a barrier to a Harry Cat.

Harry regards my nature reserve as his personal patch. No other feline paw is allowed to despoil it. You'd never think when you see him indoors all sweet and purring and cuddly that, out in the bramble patch, he's this fearsome cat-commando, prowling his territory, guarding it against all comers. Arnold Schwarzeneger is a ... well, he's a pussy-cat compared to my Harry.

All the local cats have learned that it's a place to avoid. After brief initial tussles when Harry moved in, marched out and proclaimed his possession of my garden in general and the wild section in particular, they've all learned the benefit of staying well clear. First thing Harry does of a morning when he's let out is take a general tour of the territory, discreetly marking boundary points and making sure that all's well. Then, it's the ritual mouse-killing. A mouse a day keeps Harry happy, self-satisfied and in control of his world. It's always been thus.

This early morning perambulation accomplished, he sits on the path, carries out an exhaustive washing and, when he's content he's fit to return to the house, he pounds on the kitchen door to be let in.

The whole process takes about three-quarters of an hour, during which I'm supposed to be getting my own wash and brush-up done, the litter tray cleaned and tidied and all in order for Harry's return. And his breakfast.

That's when all goes according to plan. There are variations of course. Like, when it's raining. Harry still goes out, performs his guard duties, and then hurries back expecting to find me waiting for him, towel in hand, ready to rub him dry. On wet mornings, honour satisfied, Harry stays in.

On dry mornings when the local mouse population refuses to cooperate, the whole thing gets stretched out. No matter. I'm still supposed to be there waiting to open the door and dish up breakfast. If I have the audacity to go out, when I get home Harry will be glaring through the window and my life is made miserable for the rest of the day.

Today, Harry's peace and the essential tranquillity of our routine were to be disturbed.

At first, I thought it was a protracted mouse-hunt. Harry was late. I got through my second cup of coffee and moved into the study, leaving the radio off so I could hear when he came to the kitchen door. It wasn't long before I was well immersed in catching up on poetry workshop critiques and a few emails of the general correspondence type. Doing fine, I was, so much so that it looked as if I was going to start the week with an empty mailbox. Nice. Comfortable quiet Sunday morning work.

Then it started. Howl. Shriek. Scream. All hell was breaking loose, and it had chosen my garden to break loose in.

I darted out, along the back of the house, dodging the last of the autumn wasps out enjoying the sun, and took up station on the path overlooking the bramble patch. The wailing and hissing and shrieking and howling continued, raising now and then to a crescendo and drifting back to a low, primeval moaning. That's Harry Cat, thought I.

I let out my loudest yell, calling to the little beast, telling him that his time was up, he should come home or I'd have his... Well, I called to him. Very loudly.

All went quiet. I called again. Still quiet. Then a low howl and yowl started up, there was a grand shaking of the brambles and a white and grey cat, twice Harry's size and not known to me, shot out as though the hounds of hell were after him. Make that the cats of hell. Whichever. He crashed through the undergrowth to emerge almost at my feet, did a double take and disappeared through the hedge into the next-door garden.

Next thing, Harry emerged, in full pursuit. Until he realised I was standing there. He screeched to a halt, looked up at me, spat out a lump of white fur, and meowed one of his sweetest meows.

"Come, on, Harry, let's get that breakfast done." And in we walked, skirting the wasp nest, into the kitchen, and over to the food bowl.

While he was eating I gave him a close inspection. Not a mark. Not a hair out of place. While he was cleaning himself up I repeated the inspection. Nope. All's well. Harry has fought and won. Again. --

© 1999 John Bailey