WE are being lovebombed by a stray cat. It is shameless. It is blatantly trying to wheedle its way into our affections – and, of course, to worm its way into our nice warm house.

It was ravenously hungry when it arrived a fortnight ago, even devouring the three-day-old rock-hard cheese scones that my son had made at school and which even Roger the rooster – who lives at the bottom of the garden with his harem of two hens – had turned his beak up at.

Now, though, it has its own shelf in the cupboard for its array of individually-packaged sachets of gourmet cat food.

It was shy and timid when it arrived, skulking around the back yard. Roger bashed it on the top of its head with his beak when it stole his mealworms and it disappeared for a day, but now it sits as bold as brass at the back door, impossibly pretty with its ginger fur and neat white bib, staring imploringly through the window with its irresistibly large, dark eyes.

My wife is encouraging it, and accidentally took it to the vet. She had the pet-carrier out because Roger has a mild dose of bird flu, but the cat turned up, strolled into the carrier and so got the once over from the vet, who couldn’t find a microchip.

This emboldened both my wife and the cat, and now it is in the house, rubbing around her legs, purring appreciatively, rolling at her feet, showing her its belly fluff, mewing it’s never ending love for her.

I’m not so easily taken in. I know that it has been trying it on in every house in the village since the summer. A neighbour’s young daughter told us: “A man came round asking about the cat because it’s been sleeping with him.” It's a promiscuous pussy.

I also know that once it is in, the lovebombing will cease. It will own the place. It will expect to be waited on. Its attitude to Roger has already changed. Whereas Roger has to stay outside in the fog, the back door always opens for the cat, so it walks disdainfully past him with its tail held haughtily high, scattering his harem, and telling him that he is yesterday’s pet.

But the cat – my daughter has named it Morris because it looks like a Morris – knows that I know this, and so it is desperately trying to suck up to me, wrapping itself round my legs, nuzzling my knee, laughing at my jokes. I expect to come home one night and I find it on its hindlegs at the kitchen sink, wearing marigolds and doing the washing up with a feather duster attached to its tail as it does the dusting, just to prove to me how lovably useful it could be.

I, though, am hideously allergic to anything furry. After only a few minutes of exposure, I am unable to either breathe or see. I am a wheezing, sneezing, sobbing, red-eyed wreck – a night out with my wife’s horsey friends imperils my health because even though they’ve changed and showered, they still carry the lung-clogging, snot-starting essence of horse.

Hence feathery Roger is the perfect pet.

Twenty-odd years ago, when love was young, my wife gave up her two cats for me because I couldn’t spend a night in the same house as them.

But, within two short weeks, I’ve seen Morris push Roger down the pecking order, and I fear I may soon be living in the hen house with him.