It’s high summer in Thornaby and, after breakfast, Tic Tac rushes to the front door, meowing excitedly as she demands her walk.
I have trouble bending, so she jumps up on her sun shelf. We put on her harness and off we go.
We avoid the gravel access Tom spent so many hours putting in, as our princess dislikes the feel of small stones under her paws, and inspect the flower borders.
In the early morning, the poppies are still asleep, but the lavender and toadflax are filled with bees: small, busy honeybees darting rapidly from flower to flower, and huge, fat bumblebees taking off slowly and lumbering through the air before landing carefully, their enormous weight bending the stems until they almost touch the grass.
Tic Tac is fascinated. She walks right up to the lavender, ears twitching at the buzzing sounds, but she doesn’t touch.
Usually, we work our way through the small lawn, looking for crickets and beetles, but two days ago there was an interesting noise in the bay tree.
Tic Tac dropped to her belly, flattened her ears and leopard-crawled across the grass. As I followed, she stopped, glanced over her shoulder and chattered, warning me to act covertly.
Tic Tac inched forward, settled in the soil, and lay immobile, lips curled, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut.
I tried to be as invisible as possible. When you’re wearing a yellow top, hot pink skirt and purple slippers, camouflage is a challenge. I stood still and fantasised I was a parrot.
As the silence stretched, Tic Tac’s ears swizzled like satellite dishes. Then, I heard it too: a suppressed chirp. Tic Tac stiffened. Next, a rustle of feathers.
Ready to attack
Tic Tac’s sleek haunches bunched. Her hindquarters lifted slightly and her body stretched. Even her nose lengthened.
There was an air of frightened anticipation. There was a bird in the bay – perhaps two.
Now, Tic Tac is fast, and she can leap a metre in the air, no problem. But she can’t jump straight through dense branches loaded with leaves. Even if she could, the harness would hamper her.
Knowing her dreams of assassination were impossible, I watched her tense and wiggle her hindquarters as she calculated speed and angle of trajectory. Computation complete, she leapt.
As the little cat sailed through the air, the blackbirds exploded from the tree. They didn’t go up; they went sideways, seeking shelter in the magnolia.
The birds’ frantic shrieks and high-pitched, drawn-out whistles warned feathered friends all around that a dangerous predator was at large. But the predator was stuck, her harness catching on one branch and then another.
From the growls, grumbles and frustrated hisses, Tic Tac was not pleased. Too impatient to let me assist her, she ripped through the foliage and ran in hot pursuit.
But blackbirds aren’t daft. One led the other to a high branch. Her furious scold aimed at Tic Tac signalled this was Mum. Her offspring huddled together, shrieking, whistling and staring at the cat below with big, frightened eyes.
Tic Tac growled and prowled. Seeing the magnolia thick with leaves, she stood on her back paws, trying to discover a way up. There wasn’t one. Tic Tac was grounded.
Meanwhile, Mum blackbird rained down a tirade of curses on all cats. Tic Tac’s sweet princess exterior ripped away as she meowed back, threatening all-out destruction.
The blast of ferocious growls and shrieks was too much for the juvenile birds; one took off, and the others were right with it.
They only moved to the wall, a mere metre away, but Mum blackbird halted her battle and went to chaperone.
A different adventureTic Tac, hot with temper, ran to the bottom of the wall, meowing threats. But they were empty ones. Even at her best, Tic Tac can’t leap two metres.
When the birds left, whistling derisively, Tic Tac stood down. Smoothing her hackles, she sat on the grass and cleaned her face.
I know my duty, and so I praised her cunning and skill at flushing the hidden birds, and her bravery at the verbal battle. Tic Tac side-eyed me. She’s not foolish, our girl. But an adventure is an adventure. Also, Inkie was watching from the window.
Tic Tac trotted inside and was greeted with wonder and excitement. Inkie is too scared for garden adventures; he panics when I invite him to sniff the harness.
Inkie’s hero worship restored Tic Tac’s temper. She preened, boasted and after Inkie washed her face with adoration, she went to tell her tale to Target.
The next morning was wet due to overnight rain. Even so, Tic Tac was dead keen to go out. As I harnessed her, she purred with tension and meowed impatiently.
The second I opened the door, she was off.
When we encountered the wet grass, Tic Tac halted. She put a paw out, shuddered and stepped bravely. Committed, she high-stepped over, determined to pursue her revenge.
The grass was drenched, and Tic Tac’s paws and furry tummy were soon soaked. But our brave white hunter winced and kept going.
Inspecting the bay and the magnolia got her nothing. The blackbirds were AWOL.
Miffed, Tic Tac channelled her inner bloodhound. She tracked professionally, working her way to the wall.
Still nothing. But as her eyes were fixed upwards, she missed a snail munching on clover. Tic Tac trod right on it.
Our white huntress shrieked and jumped a foot in the air. The poor snail whisked itself in its shell and acted dead.
It needn’t have worried; Tac Tac was done. At her meow, I gathered her up and took her inside. We rubbed her paws dry with a towel and inspected it to make sure it was icky-slime-free.
Thankfully, Inkie was there, his huge eyes and cautious sniffs signalling his admiration for Tic Tac’s bravery.
Tic Tac’s bounce returned. She licked Inkie’s face – and then nipped him playfully in the neck.
Challenged, Inkie whapped her playfully. Tic Tac squealed in defiance, and they were off, battling up and down the stairs.
Life is good.
