Foxy lady

For the second time in about three weeks, I have rescued my cat Soze (above) from the clutches of a fox. Both were late at night - the first I was coming home from the pub and as I rounded the corner to my flat block, Soze scampered out with the fox in hot pursuit. On Friday I came home from the pub (hm, a pattern is developing) and Soze was perched on our garden shed, with the fox below, trying to scramble up.

I'm not sure if the foxes were really trying to eat Soze - vulpes Londinium is famously well fed and there are more than enough chips and kebabs strewn on the ground in my neighbourhood to keep them fat and happy. But the Sozemeister is an easy mark, not much of a fighter.

I cannot convey how much I worry now, though. She is in the garden as I write this and I keep peering out just to make sure she is OK. She has been with me for near to six years now. She is reliable; unlike humans she does not dissemble, there is a constancy with her. True, she often treats me like staff, her meows could probably all be translated to 'Feed me, you bastard' or 'Open this door, you bastard.' She has pretty much destroyed my flatmate's couch.

But then I like to pick her up by her front paws so she is standing on her back legs and pretend she is dancing (I particularly like making her do that Travolta in Pulp Fiction thing) which she bears with much grace. And when she is sleeping I put things on her like sunglasses and my Red Sox cap. So we both win. It's a give and take thing.