‘Kaww! Krraaugh! ’ Crashcading her way from cage to dog bed to the old plaid print La-Z-Boy recliner, the foul beast was ornery today. Cowering in the corner of the living room, my father was brandishing a lit venetian floor lamp, his swings intermittent in intensity, a vain effort to show the mephitic fiend he was prepared to give it "what’s-what" if necessary. I turned the key to the front door and entered just in time to witness the performance.

‘Back! Back I say!’ flourishing the make-shift torch. Scaled wings thrashed in utter defiance with fitful pecking. Clearly this wasn’t going to end well for dad.

‘Dad! What’s going on?’ I rushed into the room.

‘There she is! This is all your fault!’ Still prodding the demon with electric light, ‘You could have got me a cat for Christ’s sake! What in Sam Hill is this thing anyway?’ he spat, ducking to avoid the volley of beak shot.

‘I…I…’ and then I saw my artistic folly. I dropped my purse on the counter and grabbed the nine iron from dad’s golf bag.