More than a year has passed since the arrival in June 2004 of Thing 1 and Thing 2, two allegedly vicious yard cats introduced to our stable yard as vermin controllers, writes Eileen Battersby
True, it had all begun in embarrassment. With two resident female cats and six dogs, why would we need to hire professional assassins? But as our two ladies, formerly rescue cats, are now fastidious house pets and the dogs are confirmed pacifists, all rodent extermination was being left to my special mare, Kate - sweet in many ways but a gifted striker possessed of a deadly kick. One rat had been dispatched with such power by her mighty leg that his corpse actually stuck to the stable wall.
Within minutes of peeling the dead rat off the wall, his face a study in surprise, I decided to consult my then vet, a man of famously low tolerance. His booming response - "Are none of those dogs any use? What about the cats? pathetic too, I suppose?" - caused me to slink out of the surgery watched by a smirking boxer dog (unaware he was there to be neutered).
The vet did help. A few days later a woman phoned. She had been informed of my problem and offered the services of two wild cats she had been feeding for a year while she restored an old country house. Now she was ready to move in and would be bringing her Dublin cats to live with her. The two vicious strays would have to go.
I agreed to take them but stressed, "I don't want more pets; I need two killers" - adding, David Mamet-like, "Results, not affection." She arrived with two orange-and-white horrors in a cage. A brother and sister, but not from the same litter. The large male was about nine months older; the female was a wretched little street urchin wearing an expression of much cunning. She was about as friendly as an alligator. The pair hissed and struck at the cage. As the whiff of urine caused nearby plants to wither, the woman said a few of her friends had trapped the cats. "They've been neutered. I've never touched them," she said. "They bit and scratched the vet. Be careful." Off she went, her relief approaching triumph.
When I managed, with difficulty, to open the cage, the cats burst out and stormed, shrieking, into the hay-barn, causing one of the dogs to run for his life. Experienced killers had arrived.
Within a few days Thing 1, the male, was beginning to reconsider his life. He took to howling at the window and following me about. His wary expression became one of gooey devotion. Initially named in honour of the great Dr Seuss, it was decided to change Thing 1's name to something less functional.
He became Sebastian in honour of another hero, JS Bach. Meanwhile, Thing 2 gave up her violent ways. She too wanted to be a domestic pet and was renamed Anngret. Although the dogs are a mild bunch, kind to cats and other wildlife, Nala and Pippy, the pet cats, were outraged.
Sebastian and Anngret are happy if terrified of Nala and Pippy, who have revealed previously hidden hunting skills. Recently, Anngret finally began to put on weight. Her former street urchin look had given way to one of absolute contentment. She became my shadow. Benevolence was in the air.
Slowly it became obvious - Anngret, neutered or not, was with child. She grew bigger and increasingly affectionate - then she disappeared. A couple of days later Sebastian started yowling more loudly than ever and instead of waiting until he was lifted up - the only way to stop his meowing - walked backwards, Pied Piper-like, leading me away down the lane to a dark, scary barn, in which rusted tin roofing creaks on cue. He circled and yowled, leapt up into the straw bales and screamed. The lunatic in me decided I had to follow. Several bales up and three in towards the back wall of the barn were two kittens. No sign of Anngret.
The kittens were weak, but the tiny black one was purring as I placed them in my inside pockets. Sebastian led the way home, through the darkness and the rain, checking over his shoulder to make sure I was following. Back in our woods, Nala stalked over and hissed at Sebastian, who as usual meekly shrank to half his size. Having settled the kittens in an old cowboy hat in the tack room, It was bedtime. Nala hopped up on my shoulder, still glaring at Sebastian and not pleased about the kittens. Sebastian sighed, retreating into his sanctuary, an old wooden crate, the only place Pippy and Nala allow him to rest free of torment. He watches the kittens, but never touches them.
That was a month ago. Now sturdy kittens, Moggy and Lavender trust the six dogs - and the five puppies - and love the horses, especially Kate. Anngret has not yet returned. Although she was determined to live here she knew better than to give birth to kittens anywhere on Nala and Pippy's territory, so she chose that neutral, remote barn.
Yesterday, Kate whinnied for immediate attention. She stood in a corner of the barn and for once seemed to be losing patience with the kittens. She had good reason. Kate the rat killer and gifted striker had discovered something different. A pygmy shrew was sitting on the straw. My equine genius knew only her human could protect it. Her human obliged. The pygmy shrew is Ireland's smallest mammal. This one remained impressively calm on being lifted. Carefully released on a high bank, it scuttled into the undergrowth. Back in the stable, the kittens, having climbed up on the window, were walking along the back of their surrogate mother, Kate, the capable horse who kills rats. Foaled in Ireland, unlike many an Irish soccer international, she could save Irish football - and might have kept us in the World Cup hunt. . .