WMD........ Weapons of Mouse Destruction.

We have a few mice and shrews taken up residence in the garden. They are by no means a serious problem and we probably would be none the wiser if it were not for the fact that Scribble (our cat) has taken it upon her self to carry out a Bush like Shock and Awe attack on the critters.

This cat is at least 12 years old and should really be thinking seriously about her retirement and not running around like a teenager. Don't get me wrong a mouser is invaluable in keeping the rodent population at bay and indeed I even tried to get the Accountant to class the cat as tax deductible for playing this role. But I wasn't expecting that she would actually catch any!!

The trouble is, you see, she can't just catch and eat the mice, no she has to play with them for half an hour first. We have sat in our living room and watched the B&B's cat from across the road trot merrily along with a dead king size rat in its jaws swinging to and fro as the cat jauntily jogs along. That's the thing you see... it's dead as a dodo, dispatched to it's rat run in rodent heaven, whereas our cat will having caught the thing take it back to her lair and play with it for an inordinate amount of time.

She will invariably save the moment for the very time that we have chosen to eat our breakfast out on the patio resulting in me having to interrupt said breakfast to go and rescue the poor bullied rodents.

Scribble has clearly sensed that I am writing about her and has climbed across the furniture and plumpted herself down on my lap twisting her head right back to stare at me with her two large black iris's and looking as cute as a cuddly teddy bear. "What me?" she could be saying.

So I am in the middle of my toast and marmalade when there is much commotion and hoo-haa coming from under the rusty red cob nut tree better known as my evil cats lair. A shrew is being mauled as I break for a sip of my PGTips, I look away feeling guilty and spread a little butter on the toast...  Looking up I watch the cat suddenly jump up like a spring lamb as she is surprised that when she lifted her paw to see if she still had the thing it took the opportunity to make a dash for it. With her wits quickly recovered she zooms off after it in hot pursuit and once again wraps her clawed paw around the poor sod. I spread a little marmalade on to the toast only to have my eye drawn back to the cat throwing the shrew up into the air stabbing it with her spiteful claws on the way down.

As I raise the toast to my mouth and as the taste buds prepare for that warm marmaladey taste my conscience over-rules the whole procedure and I feel obliged to save the shrew from the humiliation and suffering and throw my toast down grummbling "Bloody Cat!".

We have found that a very large clear plastic salad bowl with a flattened  Cornflake box works brilliantly well in catching the distraught rodent, you simply use it as you would a glass and a piece of card when catching a spider.

I then find myself leaving the house (and my toast) and with one hand under the cardboard and the 2nd one ontop of the upturned salad bowl whilst the rodent runs around (or limps) in circles I march down the lane past some houses hoping not to meet anyone on route and finally release the creature into the hedgerow. I am even more concerned at meeting someone on the way back as the reason for me carrying a large (tinted lime green) salad bowl and a flattened Kelloggs cornflake box is far less discernible to any onlooker.

Back in the garden I see the cat looking totally bewildered as she re-visits and sniffs the place where I captured the shrew. "That is so odd", I can imagine her thinking, "I had it in my paws, I swear I did! Where on earth did the blithering thing disappear to?".

And whilst I leave the cat to ponder this enigma, I return to a piece of cold toast washed down with some cold tea. Lovely.

WMD

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