A STRANGE thing happened the other day. My daughter and her husband think they met Monty, our cat who went missing more than a year ago.

They certainly saw a very similar cat; called his name and he ran over and gave them a rapturous welcome.

Of course he was a juvenile when he disappeared one evening, and it's a long time ago. He looked healthy, happy and contented and I wouldn't want to be the subject of a tug of cat love situation. I'd really just like to know if it is him and that he is safe and well. I'd probably also like an explanation in writing from him why he moved without so much as a postcard, but you can't have everything.

When is a stray not a stray? It's a question which is difficult to answer.

We have a cat who occasionally sneaks in and eats our cats' food, but I couldn't say if it was a stray or just an opportunist. Cats can adopt an 'I've not had a square meal for a month' look at the drop of a hat, even fat cats can somehow manage to look pathetically emaciated if they try hard.

The first real stray we had was in our first house. One rainy winter's evening my husband heard a noise on our small back porch and went outside. Suddenly he realised he had a cat attached to his right ankle, a black and white cat which had been sheltering in the corner and had taken objection to being disturbed. After attempting to chew through his trousers it shrieked and spat and ran off.

Two nights later I saw the same cat under the oil tank and put saucers of food and water out onto the porch, not mentioning this fact to the person who was still suffering from a punctured ankle and moaning about the dangers of tetanus and rabies (and not appreciating jokes about only taking him seriously when he started to stiffen up and foam at the mouth).

Thus began our regular irregular relationship with Tom, as I called him.

He would appear, eat and leave. He did this in several other houses as I discovered by talking to the neighbours. He never came close, never answered to a call and his basic attitude was 'well, are you going to feed me or not, because if not I'm off'.

By summer he did occasionally sit under a shrub in daylight some distance away, glaring at our cat if it dared to come into the garden.

Now our cat was called Simon and had very well established instincts of self-preservation because of a traumatic childhood.

We had acquired Simon by ringing the RSPCA and asking if they had any kittens. Yes, they said, they were seeking a new home for a nine-week-old white and grey tom kitten they had homed the week before to a lady who's mature cat hadn't taken kindly to a newcomer.

We got the address, rang up and armed with a borrowed cat basket drove to see the kitten.

The lady who answered the door of the neat bungalow lead us through to the kitchen and enlarged on the story.

The RSPCA had somewhat understated the problem. Her cat Spangles had not just taken unkindly to the newcomer, he had been found standing on top of it with his teeth fixed firmly round its throat. Several times.

She indicated a very large cuddly tabby snoozing on the window ledge who stretched lazily as we looked at him and adopted a 'who me?' expression of total innocence.

The lady said she had had to shut the kitten in the dining room and we followed her as she opened the door. Spangles suddenly materialised behind us, seemingly growing in size by the second and with a nasty gleam in his eyes, and his owner grabbed him before he could shoot between our legs and carried him off to the front room.

The kitten had wisely rushed under a sideboard but soon came out and he was delightful if somewhat nervous.

The lady was quite tearful and said she didn't know what could have come over Spangles. 'He's normally so friendly, he loves the grandchildren and wouldn't hurt a fly', she said.

I thought if I was her I'd watch him with the grandchildren in future.

We said we'd take the kitten, popped him in the basket and left. As we drove away I looked back and saw a bulky frame in the front window.

It may have been a trick of the light but I swear I saw a tabby paw raised giving a two claw salute.

Simon, who turned out to be Simone, so much for the RSPCA's deductive powers, was always a bit nervous of other cats and Tom clearly reminded her of the excesses of Spangles, so she didn't leave the house when he was about. Tom gradually became a little more friendly and would come onto the step and poke his head into the kitchen and once allowed me to lean over and stroke his head, standing stock still and poised to run at the unfamiliar touch.

When we moved I was tempted to try to take him with us, but I knew I couldn't.

For a start it would have taken a posse of wild animal experts to catch him; and he was used to his own stamping ground and his various food stops around the neighbourhood.

I left a note for the next owners telling them he might visit and what food he liked (any, actually). I didn't mention ankle biting though.

We had many strays after that. One was like those relatives who visit for the weekend and stay for a year. She appeared one evening, ate a tin of tuna and the next thing I knew she was in front of the fire washing her paws and introducing herself to all the family. Another we called Haley because like the comet he only appeared a few times, stayed a couple of weeks and disappeared. A small grey cat used to visit only on a Friday, perhaps his owners went out on that day and he didn't fancy spending it alone.

A friend, years ago, gave a welcome to a heavily pregnant cat who promptly had her litter behind the sofa, stayed for six weeks as an apparently devoted mother and faithful new pet and then left one evening as quietly as she had come, without the kittens. After a week of fruitless searching a neighbour said she thought the cat was from a farm about a mile away and sure enough it was. In fact it was sitting on the gate-post when my friend called, pointedly ignoring her.

The farmer's wife said 'she's done it before, she goes off when she's expecting but she always comes back' and no they didn't really want the kittens.

So it's difficult to know when it's a stray or a cat on the scrounge for a different flavour of Whiskas, or a runaway kitten-dumping mum.

If it is a real stray, you either welcome it into the bosom of your family (unless you have a reincarnation of Spangles living with you) or inform Cat Protection.

Not all cats welcome being rescued. I remember a battered tom called Arthur who lived mainly in Tavistock churchyard, a Gay (in the original sense of the word) Lothario to all the local female felines, until one day a well-meaning cat lover decided he was a poor neglected stray.

She took him to the vet for the inevitable snip, had him de-fleaed, de-wormed and generally tidied up.

When last seen he was wearing a velvet collar and a bow, and looking as thoroughly miserable as any Casanova whose potential for causing trouble has been surgically removed.