Spartacat was basking in the warm November sun when his battle-scarred ears caught the sound of a creaking garden gate. He jumped down from the roof and effortlessly balanced on a wall between two gardens he considered his territory.

Ms G, whom Spartacat allowed to use his garden, let a couple of two-legged klutzes enter the place. He was not sure if they would be more of a nuisance than the rats he had to fight with now and then. Ms G explained something to the newcomers and pointed at Spartacat. He knew she must have made it clear he was the champion and the ruler of this area.

After Ms G disappeared inside the house, the ham-fisted people, not armed with claws or fangs, reached for trowels, forks and broomsticks. Spartacat looked at them for a short while, curious about when the combat would start. To his disappointment, people aimed their weapons towards heaps of leaves and bunches of weeds on the paving and ivy hanging from a wall. Spartacat turned his head towards the garden to the other side.

An hour later, Spartacat bored with the quiet atmosphere of the afternoon, ventured to the streets, roofs and gardens of Hanwell to see if anyone wanted to challenge him to a duel. No one dared to.

When Spartacat returned to the top of Ms G's house, the back garden looked different. The ivy somehow disappeared from the wall, the flower beds were cleared of weeds, and there were no leaves on the ground. Three new waste bags stood propped against each other next to the wooden gate. Spartacat felt pleased with what he saw. The people were finally gone and the rat hideouts were now exposed to his sharp eyes. When Ms G came out to greet Spartacat, she seemed more contented than usual. Spartacat was not sure whether it was because of the sight of him or the garden. He was not sure if he cared. He was a cat.