Donkey Work

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People staying in the district and hearing that we keep Siamese often stop at the cottage and ask to see them.

  'Quiet spot you have here,' they comment, gazing idly round at the garden, the valley and the rolling West Country hills. That, say the more lynx-eyed of them a second or two later, spotting a pair of Seal Point ears protruding bulrush-fashion from a clump of grass on the far side of the lawn, must, from what they've heard of him, be Solomon. It is indeed. Solomon in ambush. In his favourite hide behind the air-vent of the septic tank, and a more embarrassing introduction than to say 'This is Solomon' – and then, when they enthuse about how beautiful he is and what is that interesting stone he's sitting behind, is it a Roman milestone, having to confess that that is the air-vent to our septic tank – it is difficult to imagine.

  Flustered – some of them muttering doggedly that it looked like a Roman milestone anyway – they gaze around for inspiration. It is not long in coming. It arrives in the form of a pint-sized Blue Point queen within seconds of hearing people talking to Solomon. Belting down the path at top speed, dwindling to a coy dawdle when she nears the party – once, as the result of a springtime mousing expedition in the ditch, she appeared with her eyebrows starred with cow parsley flowers like the Primavera; we have often wondered how accidental that entry was... That, they say, greeting her arrival with delight, must be Sheba.

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