Permanent exile dreaming of field mice in Wicklow

When I wrote about the death of my cat, Walter, last year, several readers sent condolences, so I thought they should have an update.

Carmel Courtney of Dundrum encouraged me to get a kitten. At first the idea seemed disloyal, but before Christmas I began looking for a new pet. I was in Ireland, and a Bray vet put me in touch with Belinda Caulfield, who gave me Spike.

At Christmas-time we put a door-sized plank across the kitchen entry, in the naive hope that Spike could be confined to the most functional part of the house. He was still chubby with down-soft kitten fur and a bushy racoon tail, but he was already a fearless, break-neck puss with a sense of humour.

Spike jumped to hook his paws over the top edge of the plank. His little hind legs scrambled madly to lever himself over the top. When he tumbled on to the dining room side of the barrier, he looked at us as if to say: "So you thought you could pen me in?" Then he repeated the escape in reverse.

Air France is the only airline that lets you carry a pet in the cabin from Dublin to Paris. Before leaving for the airport, I tried unsuccessfully to force an animal tranquilliser down Spike's throat. He wailed all the way to Paris.

One of Spike's first outings was to Dr Vigneron, the vet in the rue du Cherche-Midi. She tattooed his right ear. If he ever got lost, the Ministry of Agriculture would in theory contact me. In a country where you can buy eau de cologne and cashmere sweaters for pets, 4,000 cats and 100,000 dogs are discarded every summer.

Brigitte Bardot, France's most famous animal rights activist, has purchased colour page ads in magazines and newspapers, featuring a heart-breaking photo of an emaciated dog. "Your family takes you on holiday?" asks the caption. "Mine shamefully abandoned me."

Dr Vigneron also told me about the "parachute cat syndrome". Every summer she treats several Paris felines who fall or jump from upper-floor apartments. Knowing Spike's penchant for acrobatics, I wired green net to the wrought-iron balconies.

Now I understand why the French call alley cats chats de gouttiere.

My Paris neighbours have a tabby named Frimousse, with continents of milk-white fur mapped over her striped body. Frimousse's owners don't worry about parachute cat syndrome, and she is given free run of the sixth-floor rain gutter.

While Spike sits imprisoned behind the green netting, Frimousse struts by to taunt him. Sometimes they kiss Eskimo-style. Or lay their ears back and swat at one another. Usually Spike hunches down and coos like a turtle dove when Frimousse approaches.

French cats have delicious and musical names. Frimousse means "pert little face". I know a cat in Bordeaux called Clafoutis, after the fruit tart, and a tabby near Morlaix who answers to Galipette (somersault).

But friends are perplexed when I tell them Spike's name, which they almost invariably pronounce "Speek". The best translation I've come up with is pointe de fer, and I've yet to find a French person who hears the poetry in it.

Most evenings Spike embarks on what my god-daughter's mother calls his quart d'heure colonial. Suddenly, as if he had taken a jolt of 220-volt current, Spike races at high speed through the apartment, ricocheting off walls, crashing into any obstacle in his path, overturning waste bins and the laundry basket, sliding on rugs.

Unlike Walter, who hung back fearfully when the front door opened, Spike plunges into frontier territory. He grasps the door latch with his paws, swings from it and meows when he wants out now.

In the early morning and late evening, when he's least likely to encounter the concierge, postman or neighbours, I let him roam the staircase.

Although Spike has adjusted to Parisian life, his character is Irish; always cheerful, without an ounce of pretension. How else do you explain that the only visitor he boldly kissed at first meeting - with a wet nuzzle on the forehead - was the Irish Ambassador's wife?

He is the only cat I've known who shows no fear of water, a fact I attribute to early months in the rain. He sticks his paw under the tap and dips into soap suds when I wash dishes.

And when he sits on the balcony contemplating the lady feeding pigeons two floors below, I suspect he's dreaming of field mice in Wicklow. But alas, unless the Department of Agriculture lifts quarantine restrictions, my brave Irish puss will stay in Paris.