Eileen Battersby: Embarrassed by the relaxed demeanour of the rats and mice in our stable yard, I decided to take action. Well, that's not quite accurate. More than a few people had commented on the kindly attitude of our six dogs towards rats, rabbits, birds, etc. They like playing. Hide and seek is a family favourite, but when it comes to killing vermin they're hopeless. It could be the result of their vegetarian diets.
Are they cissies? Have I spoilt them? Are they over-hugged? Is it the bubble bath? Have they watched so many David Attenborough films they are bored by the standard farmyard rodent? Who knows?
Perhaps this is the final stage in the emasculation of the domestic canine. Maybe they are simply too well-adjusted to seek fulfilment in tearing smaller animals asunder. Have I failed as a dog owner?
I mentioned our "problem" at the local vet's. The answer hurt: "Are none of those dogs any use? Can they not deal with a few miserable rats? That's pathetic."
"I guess they're fastidious," I mumbled. My face glowed and that nervous tic, a pulse under my eye, began throbbing. "How about your cats?" asked the vet.
Ah yes, the cats. We have two. Nala is a pretty tabby with four white socks. She's aristocratic, languidly graceful, very sociable, and enjoys travelling in the car. This is interesting, considering I first discovered her by chance on an icy back road. It was dark and had begun to rain. I was edging along slowly when a lurching tractor forced me into the ditch. As I got out to check for damage, I noticed a movement on the road. There she was: a tiny kitten, six or seven weeks old, with a possible broken leg.
I wrapped her in my fleece and, on arriving at a small town, asked for directions to a vet. He proved blunt: "It hasn't a hope. Put it in the bin." Gathering her up in my hand, I delivered a brief if telling address, questioning the vet's current vocation, his humanity and so on. That was five-and-a-half years ago. Nala still has all four legs and has developed into a cat who purrs at butterflies. She perpetrates bloodless indoor mice killings but shuns mud, rain and the great outdoors in general.
Her associate, Pippy Longstockings, is another rescue story. She was a kitten with cat 'flu when we met her and were advised to "forget it". One of our dogs, Nathan, a sensitive gent who likes flowers, guards the washing machine, and is a natural carer, sat for hours with her. Pippy survived and, at four, is more like a puppy than a cat. She has never chased a mouse, though she has watched Nala's quiet killings in which the dead mice are abandoned. Both cats glide away, leaving me to dispose of the bodies. She too is a confirmed house pet.
It is true that my horse Kate has killed a couple of rats. The first death seemed deliberate, though the rat was obese and cynics suggest it suffered a heart attack. Another rat was squashed flat as a pancake, so perhaps she just stood on it. There was also a rat corpse, so badly battered the horse could have stalked her prey and tortured it before finishing the job. But despite my immense faith in this horse of horses, I could not base my rodent control operation around her, as another horse, Sophie, is terrified by any creature smaller than a pony and panics.
But if your domestic animals are sub-standard hunters, do not despair. There is a solution. Call in the real thing: feral cats who don't want litter trays, aren't interested in being petted and ignore "puss, puss" calls. The vet obliged. Within a day, I had the offer of two yard cats. They had been neutered and were untouched by humans. The rats would soon be a memory, banished from their Eden - my yard - with its straw, hay, meal and other feed.
My professional assassins arrived in a cage, drenched in pungent urine. Orange and white, they hissed, looked savage and spat. Here were cats as nature intended them, vicious, unspoilt by human contact. Perfect. One looked fully grown, pugilistic, a male. The female was smaller, dangerous, a cunning street urchin. "You are hired hands. This is no holiday camp." I decreed. "Your mission is killing rats and mice. Don't attack the postman."
I thought of calling them Grendel and Grendel's Mother. I liked the idea of the Beowulf connection but decided it might lead to intimacy.
"They're so sweet," enthused my daughter, Nadia. "Can they sleep in the bedroom as well?" The woman who had delivered the cats waited for my reply. "Of course not. I'm sick of all those cats and dogs on the bed. These ones are going to stay in the yard. They're workers, killers." In honour of this year's centenary of the great Dr Seuss, I named them Thing One and Thing Two.
Within two days my "assassins" were calling to me. I remained aloof, indifferent. By day three, Thing Two was rubbing against my legs. By the end of the first week, the pair of them had moved into the barn with the horses. On the eighth morning, both were curled up beside my charismatic Kate. The mare sighed, and looked benignly at the sleeping moggies. They woke, ran to me, placed their paws on my boots and meowed - loudly.
Last night they were at the bedroom window, demanding to be let in. So much for my pest control unit. As for the rats, I think they're laughing at me.