…Especially with reference to killing small rodents.

Cats are mad, 'tis common knowledge.  With a dog you can feel safe when home alone at night, any suspicious noise is met with a loud, confident reply.  Cats just look half way up the wall with that mad, wild-eyed look on their face which, subsequently, reduces you to a blubbering wuss.

My story isn't really to do with mad cats, although our cat was actually mad (it pissed in my shoes on numerous occasions, the bastard, and we eventually buried it, in a shoe box - with the shoes funnily enough).

Anyway, the Field Mouse it left for us was not nearly dead and was in need of a humane, efficient and clean exit from this life.

Hence this was the problem my Father and I pondered one sunny day.  Obviously the 'leave it to nature' method and 'hammer' technique were quickly dismissed although we did spend a not an insignificant amount of time considering such ploys as (..now how do I thinly disguise this..) drive over it with the car.

Of course we discussed the disadvantages of such, including neighbours and another area which can be generally defined under the title "mess".  But then lightening struck!  (no, that would be too 'Disney'…) my Father recalled a newspaper article which explained that drowning - contrary to all my sensible beliefs - was actually a rather quick and pleasant death.

No blood or goo, hence no problem.  We had a bucket, ample water, a brick and the plan - oh and a small injured rodent who, if able to hold rational thoughts, would probably be thinking something along the lines of "hurry up you utter bastards" (or the like..)

Four minutes later we were still in a state of horror as the bloody thing continued to kick and thrust (and probably missing the mad feline).

Shaking, grimacing and eyes filled with terror - it's difficult to describe how bad we felt.  On the one hand a Worldly adult who has seen a fair share of rough 'n' tumble and, on the other, a 'tuff' (ahem) teen who laughed through the whole Fred West malarkey.  The final two minutes were the worst though.  Each sigh of relief was met with further spasms - just the arms and legs jutting out from beneath the brick for yet another wild few seconds…on and on and on…

Although in a strange twist to this story, a number of years later, as a house owner, I had a resident Vole which survived every single attempt on its life - until a feckin' great big Rat moved in, ate it and caused wide-spread domestic havoc.  At which stage I learned from my mistakes and, believe it or not, sold the house and moved to Canada…

 

 

[Oh, for the attention of the 'Funny' people - my two pints of piss submission also belongs in the non-fiction..]

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