I'm up to page twenty six on my new novel. And being home again, on furlough, again, I was typing happily when an ominous sound disturbed me.
This isn't the wild west, being just fifteen miles from central London. But we do get the occasional lesser-spotted drunk staggering through the streets. This particular noise I knew well. Obviously a new dog fox had entered the area, chancing his luck with the existing godfather. Unfortunately the two must have met and the fight sounded quite brutal. Off I cantered downstairs to close the patio doors. It wouldn't be the first time a fox has come in mooching for food. By this time the scrap had become a howling, screaming war zone.
But I needn't have worried. Harley, my Bengal tom had it all under control.
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