Ah, the joys of working from home. One gets to hear one’s wife announce: “There is a rat in the rose garden.”
Yep. Big one too. Strolling around without a care in the world. So it is time to dust off the old pellet gun or encourage the two terriers to earn their keep. I don’t want to trap, because we’ve got a thriving population of chipmunks, and they don’t elicit the same reactions of disgust that Mister Rat does.
I’d pay good money to watch a Skye Terrier’s base instincts kick in, but alas, I’m afraid mine is solidly a couch potato. These things were bred to hunt down Scottish varmints along the rocky shores of the Isle of Skye. Basically big, hairy torpedoes that are dachsunds covered with hair.
The other terrier? It wears clothing for crying out loud. This is not the face of a rat killer.
I love this caption, found elsewhere, of a picture of a Yorkshire Terrier staring at a cute little hamster: “Zoe the terrier’s unforeseen ratting instincts resulted in the loss of Rocky the Siberian Hamster. A year later, and after much careful introduction, Zoe is friends with Couscous and several other hedgehogs.”
I need something that does this — the whole Dickensian – Hogarth, back-alleys of Olde London act.
Which leaves it up to me. John Wayne Churbuck and his trusty pellet gun.