Cats. After some years of labour, a small city garden is beautified with plants; trees, flowers, shrubs and good friable soil. Into this Eden appear neighbourhood cats. A gang of them, in fact. Firstly an occasional dropping is furtively deposited under a rose tree; then growing amounts in the hydrangea bed. Final insult, profuse amounts on the camomile lawn. (There's style for you.)
Steps were taken - water, pepper, anti cat gel, wire, loud threats. To no avail. But a friend offers an ingenious device; a metal box which allegedly emits sound waves, inaudible to humans, but unpleasant to cats which trespass within its radius. Success. No droppings for weeks. Technology rules OK.
The happy householder, some time afterwards, visits a neighbour a few doors away, who points to a gravelly mound within his garden, and complains about the number of neighbourhood cats who now employ it as a latrine. The happy householder commiserates.
None of these invaders reminding our friend at all of Edward Lear's softness for them:
The Owl and the Pussy Cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat.
They took some honey and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five pound note.
The Owl looked up to the Stars above
And sang to a small guitar,
O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love,
What a beautiful pussy you are.
You remember the rest, where they dined on mince and slices of quince, which they ate with a runcible spoon. And, of course, Ireland has its own large quota of cat lovers, even cat worshippers.