A lovely morning surprise!

  Herschel snoozes

   It was early Saturday morning and we were enjoying a leisurely lie-in, idly watching rugby and occasionally dozing off. Susannah had taken Frankie to his swimming lesson and then carried on to her gym class.

Bertie  and Jellicoe share a bed. He couldn't be a hunter, could he?

Bertie and Roxy were stretched out on our bed, joined from time to time by Herschel and Jellicoe. Isambard was lying on my legs so naturally I couldn’t get up – it’s very bad manners to disturb a cat. Jenna and Gus were snoozing in their beds.

We could hear sounds of cats playing. At least Solomon and Lenny weren’t screaming at each other so all was peaceful and there was no urgency for us to get up and proceed with the day. Susannah returned and there was an exclamation of disbelief and horror as she realised she had trodden on a dead but still pliant wood pigeon.

‘You’ve got to see this,’ she said so we duly arose. The hall was a mass of feathers surrounding a defunct avian. The scene in the garden of the capture and possibly the execution  was clearly demarcated by a sufficient number of feathers to make us believe there might have been more than one casualty. How can one bird have so many feathers? Still, as the old tongue twister has it, 'There are forty thousand feathers on a thrush' so there must be at least that number on a wood pigeon. I can understand why Labradors dislike picking up pigeons – all those feathers coming loose.

Not quite the remains of the day  . . .

After clearing up (We now have a clear idea of the colour of a pigeon blood ruby) we set about using our deductive skills to determine the culprit. We thought about Susannah’s cats. Solomon is little and likes catching dragonflies. 

Solomon

Could it have been Lenny? Possibly. He may have lain on the poor bird. Lenny is ‘plump’ and lazy and limits his hunting exploits to moths.

Lenny

It could not have been Isambard as he was pinning down my legs and in any case is not keen on leaving the company either of us or the dogs. 

Isambard watching the fish

Herschel caught a squirrel not long after he was given the freedom of the garden but is not given to excessive hunting. We concluded it was probably Jellicoe. He watches the birds more than the others and so far this year he has killed a rat, a field mouse, a dunnock and a wood pigeon. He also caught a blackbird but it escaped. So, he’s not the most prolific of killers but he does his best, sadly.

What is this?'

Our garden used to be busy with birds, particularly at this time of year when adults are feeding their young, but word seems to have got around in the bird fraternity that it is a no-go area. While we miss seeing them we are glad they no longer frequent our feeders. It is a small price to pay for the joy of seeing our elegant felines prowling through the shrubs, watching the fish in the pond or sunning themselves.

Fish shall safely swim . . .

The Thirteenth Blog of Augustus Lazarus Cooke - Gus

Hello everyone!

Well, it’s a New Ear again and it’s cold at last after so much wet and warm. Frodo’s pleased ‘cos now the ground is hard he doesn’t have to have his paws washed every time he comes in from the garden. (I really like Frodo!) Jenna and Bertie and me don’t sink in the mud like him. I think that’s ‘cos we’ve got webby paws.

Our Humans didn’t go out for New Ear’s Eve – they stayed at home with us and watched the fireworks from London on the television. They said they were wonderful and there will be more later on. They said there will be fireworks for the Queen’s cold an jubilee and for the Oh! lim picks. I don’t know what those are but lots of people are getting excited about them.

I wondered if the ears were getting shorter - well, the Humans keep saying they don’t know where the time goes. I don’t think it goes anywhere, not like water down the drain. Maybe the garden needs drains ‘cos the water there doesn’t go anywhere – it just sits on the top like dirty puddles.

Mrs H was saying they need to get a dog sitter. I don’t want one. I don’t want a big person sitting on me – I’m not a bean bag. Mostly Mr and Mrs H don’t go out without us and if they have to be away for a long time then Gillian comes. That’s good ‘cos then Tia and Foxy and Buster come, too, but one day this year everyone’s going out together for a long day and we can’t go with them. Winston’s all right – he’s a cat and he’s got everything he needs indoors. Bertie knows how to use Winston’s litter tray but he’s a bit big for it now and me and Frodo are definitely too big, so you see we’ll have to have a dog sitter. It’s all Bethan’s fault – she’s getting mad – I think that’s what they said. Everyone’s happy about it apart from us dogs. Still, Tia and Foxy and Buster will probably come and stay with us that day. I hope the Humans can find someone to look after seven dogs.

Bertie’s grown such a lot. He’s much taller than Jenna now and he’s nearly as tall as me. I’m still growing muscles but I look like a proper dog. Bertie’s a puppy, with long gangly legs and his snout is longer than ever mine was. He smiles with wrinkles all over his nose, specially when he’s done something he shouldn’t. We play together a lot but sometimes he’s too rough and I have to nip him. Then he squeaks and goes to one of the Humans for a cuddle. Foxy never tells Buster off so he’s a bit surprised when he’s here and I scold him.

Bertie can jump on the Humans’ bed now. It gets a bit crowded on there ‘cos Winston likes to join us but he doesn’t take up much room. The Humans don’t seem to mind so long as we don’t start playing. Usually I get off after a while and find a dog bed to sleep in but Jenna and Winston stay all night and Bertie often does, too. Frodo never gets on the bed. He used to but he’s not allowed now ‘cos of his drugs. It’s true – no good comes of drugs.

Time for a snooze. Be good!

Hwyl fawr am nawr! (That’s Welsh for ‘Goodbye for now!’)

pee ess:Bethan’s coming home tonight ‘cos they found a dead rat in their sitting room this morning. They don’t know if it’s the one they saw in the kitchen or another one. Robert’s gone to the States for a few days and she doesn’t want to find another one while he’s away – or at all! I bet me and Jenna could see them off. Grrrr . . .

A rat a day makes the rifle pay

I took my camera upstairs last night, left it on the bedroom windowsill and waited for morning. I didn't sit up all night of course, though I didn't sleep particularly well, listening from pre-dawn for a heron. Naturally, since I was prepared, no herons deigned to grace our garden.
About half-past six Barry glanced out of the window and spotted a rat. Quietly, he readied his rifle, took aim, fired and fired and fired until the magazine was empty and the rat, killed by the first shot, lay motionless under the lilac. We both watched then for the rat remover but it didn't appear so we went to drink our morning tea. The next time we looked out the rat was in a different location, some yards from where it had met its end. Then down flew a crow and proceeded to tuck into the corpse, which was probably still warm.

At half-past eight, when I hung out the first laundry load, the now mangled body was still on the ground. It was headless but its little paws were still attached, looking rather pathetic. Only two of the dogs took any notice of the fatality. Frodo the Faller approached it cautiously and sniffed while Jenna-the-Labrador, remembering she was a retriever, looked puzzled and wondered if she should pick up. I was pleased that she didn't make any attempt at it.

By ten o'clock the cadaver had disappeared.

Barry wondered why the crow hadn't taken the rat away but chosen to eat at least part of it in the garden, where he was vulnerable; remember, crows are shot at, too! (but not in our garden.) The answer was obvious to me – the body had so much lead in it that it was too heavy to remove until parts of it had been consumed on the killing field. Crows are big strong birds but there's a limit to how much they can carry. Crows would have had to work in tandem to carry it off intact on a stretcher.

How now! a rat?

'How now! a rat? Dead, for a ducat, dead!' (Hamlet, Shakespeare)

We have had a visitation of rats. A house not far from us has been overrun with rats, the elderly lady living there unaware that she was sharing her quarters with them until her usually absent sons decided that refurbishment was in order – an eye to the future, maybe? There is a stream that runs at the end of the gardens and nearly every house has at least one compost bin and one bird-feeding station so there are rich pickings to be found in this middle-class, middle England, mildly affluent suburban community.

We have taken advice and regularly refill the locked rat traps with rat poison, keep an eye on the rat electrocutor, make sure the sonar deterrent is plugged in but still they come, not in droves but sadly, rather endearingly, in all sizes from fully adult to wide-eyed juvenile. Understanding that it is the youngest and the elderly that are forced to emerge in daylight hours, we realise that we are not seeing the full range of rodents. I imagine a King and Queen Rat presiding over their court, sending out their minions to ascertain the whereabouts of the most toothsome of treats. I have to admire rats; they are intelligent, resourceful, loyal, cunning and the carriers of disease, just like people really, though I don't believe they've caught on to the possibilities of air travel. (I don't think people are always loyal or compassionate, either . . . look at the Milgram experiment!)

Nonetheless, knowing that we cannot continue to host these clever creatures Barry bought an air rifle and is to be found on many a late afternoon honing his marksmanship. To date he has killed two dozen or so rats in varying stages of growth and poisoning but the remarkable thing – apart from his obvious skill (cough,cough) - is that the last half-dozen have disappeared within an hour of being shot.

At first he thought they must have been injured, severely but not sufficiently to prevent them dragging themselves off to a quiet place of death. Thus he ensured that he pumped enough rounds into them that they were almost minced (I exaggerate, of course!). Today he killed a young rat and before I had a chance to go out and verify the kill the corpse had disappeared.

We have a lot of crows in the area – they feature in the name of our village - they are clever, opportunistic birds. We think they have realised there is free food to be had, not only from the feeders on which they balance so precariously, not only from the pond, full of fish food, tadpoles and frogs but also when the thwack of lead against flesh advertises fresh meat for the taking. I just hope they're not susceptible to lead poisoning.