Keogh the cat : one of my humans is missing

The small ad in the local paper was even more hurtful: "Missing - tabby cat. If not found in five days, cat basket for sale."

The human has gone AWOL on a number of occasions, yet, as far as I'm aware, he's escaped the surgeon's knife (which is a shame, it would've slowed him down a bit) and they've never called his name once.

They put one picture in the paper, which said: "This young man is now 50."

The picture was hilarious. Humans have very funny hair before it moults.

They don't realise that sometimes a cat just has to get away. Endless days sleeping on the sofa can take it out of a moggie,

The sheer boredom is enough to make you chase your own tail.

I've got a little bolt-hole in the country. It's basic, but rural and only a short walk to the nearest rodent. It's a hay bale.

I could spend all day watching the chickens feeding on the stubble. That's what I call real hentertainment.

I'm surprised they still keep them in the backyard: according to a new EU directive, you've got to keep them in the backmetre.

I get on OK with the farmyard cat, a moth-eaten Tom who survives on a diet of rats.

He used to spend his time dozing on the plant machinery, but now shares the bale with me. I suppose that makes him an ex-tractor fan.

"Who's the big, burly chap with the earring?" I asked.

"That's the boss - the farmer," said the country cat.

"Strange to see a strapping bloke like that with an earring," I pointed out. "How long has he been wearing it?"

"Ever since his wife found it in the glovebox."