Over the stable door: Puss in boots gets revenge for names

WE have always had farm cats on the yard to pounce on the rodent population that plunders my horse food stocks. The two most recent feline residents were Splash and Socks.

They were siblings, the last from a long and distinguished ratting family that have inhabited the farm. Splash was a timid little bitch. Socks was a super cool, mischievous lad, his white socks always immaculate against the sleek black coat. He would regularly drop off a half-eaten rabbit by the Jack Russell's feet and walk off smartly with a look of disdain that said, "you can finish the leftovers dog, I've had the best bits". Pingu, my Jack Russell, knew better than to mess with the farm cats.

Unfortunately a few months ago Socks disappeared. Not an unusual event, hunting trips could take him away for days on occasion. It wasn't until I drove my son to nursery one morning I spotted him. Another casualty of the hectic local A road.

This left his sister the sole surviving heir of the long line of feline ancestry. Before long she became lonely enough to want human company and took to venturing in the house when opportunity arose. I would find her curled up in Pingu's bed next to the Aga, lying on top of the dog. "My house now", she'd purr. The habit formed and she took to sleeping inside with the dog every night during the cold winter nights.

It never crossed my mind that Splash would take to being a house cat quite so well. Every morning come rain or (more likely) snow, dog and cat would be kicked out to do their business… or so I thought.

I have a large disorderly utility room where everything should have its place – hunting kit, racing colours, working coats. The list is endless and needless to say, it rarely gets bottomed unless I have a euphoric moment of mad energy.

I keep a smart pair of leather exercise boots in there that only surface when the sun appears in summer, so careful am I to look after them properly. I pulled them out from the back of the boot row last week. After a lengthy absence I was looking forward to riding out in them again and quickly slipped my foot in.

My toes met with a soft mushy sensation which continued to envelope the rest of my foot before my brain had time to engage. Like a slow motion picture unfolding, I opened my mouth to squeal in revulsion as the smell of cat poo hit the back of my nostrils like a knife stab and nausea enveloped my insides.

Splash had not only christened my boot, it had become her litter tray. I retched when I saw my sock. Fortunately for Splash she'd gone off hunting, allowing me time to calm down. Was it payback for all the terrible names my brother and I had given her ancestors – Carwash, Nads, Whinnet, Rommel and Sacuntala (the original was Countdown champion in 1990). I ask forgiveness for such unoriginality we made them live with.

I was invited to a party at Bramham Horse Trials last week. It was slightly chaotic, as the invaluable entry wrist band left for me on the entrance had been swiped by an imposter. After producing two forms of ID, the unimpressed bouncer finally granted me entry, but the night was only going one way. I awoke next morning to find I'd lost my phone (while sober). No need to explain the time-consuming hassle that has caused. If anyone knows the handsome Aussie I met at a wedding recently, please tell him.

CW 12/6/10