She was in the sitting room with me, fast asleep in the window, when we heard a wheezy little screech from the dining room - a frog, I thought. Clearly Millie thought so too. Both of us rushed next door, to find Scooter sitting wide-eyed, on full alert, under the table. The hunter home from the hill written all over him.
No sign of a frog.
So I moved stuff around, the dining room being cluttered with the contents of the soon-to-be-utility room, and finally spotted a small leg protruding from beneath the standard lamp. A small froggy sort of a leg.
And there it was - seemingly unharmed - and very ready to hop into the plastic canister that has become my standard frog-rescuing kit.
Hop! into the pond, and all was well.
Except that Scooter really didn't think so. He took up his position beside the pond, until I chased him away. Up onto the wall, casting longing looks back at his stake-out, and glowering at me.
If any cat can look outraged, Scooter can.
One final glare at me, then up onto the linhay roof to sulk.
I know, I'm such a spoilsport. It's my job.