If you live in the Mallorcan countryside, you can probably expect to be ‘adopted’ by a feral cat or two. We’ve had up to nine outdoor cats living around our finca: a mother and her two lots of offspring. One of the second litter – now more than a year old – recently decided it was a bit crowded around here and left in search of his own piece of Mallorcan paradise. And then there were eight . . . but not for long.

The tiny ginger kitten we spotted under a shrub on our land was even smaller than Harry, the last ginger kitten that had briefly come into our lives. There was no sign of its mother or any siblings and it was clearly starving, as well as terrified. So we put out a dish of kitten food and did our best to make sure that the rest of the cat clan left it alone. After a few days, we noticed that Shorty – we weren’t going to name it, but had to call it something – was dragging a back leg. And despite appreciating the food, it didn’t want anything to do with us.

“We’ll have to get it to the vet somehow,” I said. We located and prepared the cat basket and The Boss set about catching Shorty. After a few failed attempts – I tried not to laugh, honestly – he succeeded. But Shorty had other plans, biting The Boss’s finger – twice – and making an escape.

No trip to the vet’s that day for Shorty. Instead, I drove The Boss into town to have a tetanus shot.