So there I yam, inna my kitchen, makin’ breakfast for kids afore school. Pouring milk over puffed and cracked rice, spreading congealed milk on toasted beigels and muttering prayers of hope that my rag won’t get lost before the drop-off, when….. SHAZZAM!!! A mighty and slightly weighty pidge comes SMACKER! Right onto my window! Scared me half to death my friends. Milk on the floor and soddenkrispies! Him? (for only a bloke could be so bovine in the morning) He peeled himself offa the glass in record time and winged it back to the squadron. His mates who’d undoubtedly pissed themselves with raucous peals of snidey laughter, as he winged it back with tales of derring-do and the bug that got away. Either that or he’d been sorely tempted by the rice of another and got a thicker head for his troubles! Either way it got me to thinking…

            Are pesky Vermins not getting a little uppity these days? The squirrel that has breached my bird feeder, the pidge that wants my baby’s breakie and the buzzards that soar invisible and beady-eyed above us, are they not threatening our peace of mind and freedoms with a far more audacious confidence than before? Youbetterbelieveit! And now I have another enemy for ya. Those with a feline disposition might wanna turn the page now ‘cause this is gonna get ugly! My bird feeder, my little globe, with which I satisfy my predilection and predisposition for the tiniest of  feathered friends, hangs from a bough that allows a steady queue of the small and beautiful to eat at leisure and feed their young. But let us not venture into regurgitation… The globe has been breached as you know by the rapacious Grey, the squirrel of my worst nightmares. The weightiest pair of Pidges you ever did see set up camp on the floor below awaiting the merest cracked nut. And  Buzzards wait for mice or moles. Or me! This has been the way of it lately and the tiny birds have learnt to deal with the unwelcome intrusion of the larger parasites far better than I. However, a new enemy has breached the new equilibrium of the garden and lurks, evil amongst the flower-pots. The Fat Cat!

            Bloated by years of sub-urban living and the steady diet of appetite accelerants and shite teevee, he stalks my garden in the early hours of daylight ready to hurl his considerable heft at any bird engrossed too eagerly in the sating of a migrated hunger. More than the pesky squirrel and his mendacious, winged friends I do despise the Cat; cool to the point of freezing; sneering behind its constantly upturned nose; smug with murderous silence; the ability to steal my breath without effort, all of this renders me eternally antipathetic to your feline friends. And now this, this studied saunter up my garden path, the parking of it’s voluminous arse amongst the struggling bulbs, its surreptitious eyes darting one way and the other, am I supposed to tolerate this? My window sails wide, again, a warning shouted and… and… it sits, settles its lardy arse and purrs “Yeah? What?” I lift a stone (one of them white ones again) and it starts with a too well-concealed stealth, makes a break for the hole in the fence, gets there and turns “Yeah? What?” I fling the stone, right handed and contorted from my left-handed window, it hits dirt and bounces… a palpable hit, right on the flank, piercing the cellulite, hitting a nerve and off it streaks! Victory is mine in the world writ small of my garden! Chalk one up for the little guy. Come birds, feed at my globe, fear not the bullies and predators. I shall keep you safe. All is swell again. But then…

            Another day and the Cat comes back!! Sauntering again, swinging the lard of its arse with pomp and circumstance: The squirrel flees: The pidge struggles for elevation and the buzzard waits for carrion. Cat stares me straight in the eyes, its flickering, vertical slit against my bulging, enraged orb. I fling wide the pigeon-caked window, (for his cataclysm with the see-through pane has left his grease stain of pain) and shout. And shout again. The lard settles and the sneer returns, the smug ask; “Got anymore?” and so I select the same, retrieved stone (never give up a lucky pebble!) and it runs, recognising the missile as it narrowly misses the moving target  of its buttox and hits wood with a ringing SMAK! Let that resound in its pointy little ears as it settles down to a saucer of unleaded milk substitute and bird flavoured soya chunx.

It didn’t return this morn. I could think it down to my re-stocked armoury and improving accuracy, but should probably recognise that inclement weather and blustery wind mighta prompted a lethargy and a vanity that precluded wet paws and ruffled fur. Such is the stuff of the Cat. And so I ponder the Ghost of a Pidge upon my window pane and think; despite the dirt and worse contained in the caked grease of his outline perhaps there is a valuable warning written there. The protection of the weak and hungry demands constant vigilance, unerring accuracy and a regimen of fitness. Such attention repays with joy and wonder. The variety and iridescence of plumage that befalls my eye delights the day. And so the Ghost stays.

Now, if I can just do something about the solitary Magpie that flounces about promising sorrow and thievery at every flap perhaps I could reach a new peace. I could do with some help from the little guys, I don’t speak Mag and know instinctively that the escalation to weapons of barrel and bullet would rid my sanctuary of all creatures great and small as well as the greedy and large. A price to great. And so the Ghost stays.