Bringing up boys: There’s a squirrel dead on the ice…

It struck me today as I watched the tail of a dead squirrel slip below the surface of the melting ice that perhaps there is too much sense and not enough sensibility in my home.

Perhaps this is because I have a male household rather than one full of Sylvanian Families, pink fluffy tutus and Cath Kidson coats with matching wellies. Not that  I would have allowed anything of the sort in my home even if I had had daughters, I can’t stand the colour pink and cute little bunnykin families are a no no and always have been for me. But there is a wistfulness when I go to other people’s homes and see all this girlishness. I think a little bit of pink would not go amiss.

I mean isn’t it rather alarming when your 7 year old and four and a half year old sons decide to name the Christmas dinner Oscar? And proceed to raise a toast to his demise totally unprompted at the Christmas table?

We go to the butchers and they quite happily bounce up to the displays and chatter about the hens we keep and say things like: “Would Mrs Brown look like that if we killed her?” which of course must be alarming to any Mrs Brown’s in the queue behind.

I am not saying my children are unkind in any way they are not but they see things very practically hence their rather gung ho attitude towards the chickens and perhaps towards the squirrel on the ice in the middle of the moat.

None of us had noticed it before and we have no idea how it got there and we would not have noticed it if Bog Boy had not brought it to our attention: “There’s a squirrel, dead on the ice.”

Me: “Really?”

Bog Boy: “Yes, look it’s dead.”

I looked myopically at it lying there quite still, apparently dead.

Me: “Are you sure it’s dead?”

Bog Boy: “Yes, it’s quite dead I saw it get deaded.”

I looked at my youngest incredulously knowing full well that if I had seen a squirrel die in front of me at his age I would have screamed and hollered for someone to save it. Not so my practical son.

Me: “Why didn’t you say so?”

Bog Boy just shrugged: “We don’t like squirrels they eat the baby birds.”

I had a feeling that for my youngest that the death of the squirrel was a kind of retribution for the damage its species wreaks on others.

Bog Boy: “And anyway no one can go in the ice now you said, so it had to die.”

He was quite right the dying squirrel could not have been rescued even if we had wanted to without one of us coming to grief for the ice could not have held anyone’s weight but it got me thinking.

And every time I looked out the window over the past few days and seen the squirrel lying there, I’ve thought more and more: Boys and girls are wired different…

Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit

The EBJ whippet has her nose to the glued to the office window and is being perfectly still; there are two fat rabbits at the end of the garden totally oblivious.

There is a strong temptation to quietly open the window motivated by sheer vanity. I have some of the oldest and most beautiful roses in the Village and they are under constant attack by rabbits.

Dilemma. Should I do it or should I consider other legal ways of sorting the problem?

If I let the dog out knowing there are rabbits at the bottom of the garden I am in fact hunting with dogs and that is illegal. If I let the dog out without looking out of the window and she chases the rabbits at the bottom of the garden I am not breaking the law. However, knowing that I am likely to have rabbits at the bottom of the garden and that not just one but all of my dogs chase them do I ever let the dogs out?

These are very serious considerations not least because my office can be found on the second floor of the house and if I was to open it the whippet would be silly enough o jump out and that no doubt would necessitate a trip to the vet.

I wonder how many people break the law in the country? I’m afraid I do a lot especially when it comes to hunting with dogs. I have no intention to but dogs are dogs and I do hate keeping them on leads all the time.

I’ll never forget taking Jack Russell Biggles for a walk in Battersea Park in London. I lived just 237 paces (my father counted them) from the Park and either myself or my sister would walk the dog there once in the morning and once in the evening during the week and several times over the weekend if we had not taken him visiting.

Biggs and I were strolling around. He doing dog things i.e. sniffing at every bush and tree and cocking his leg at every given opportunity (now just how do they know how much wee they will need when they have no idea how long the walk will be?).

I came across a woman sobbing beside a very forlorn-looking black greyhound. In London you tend to ignore this type of behaviour, pretend it is not happening and pass by; but this time I could not.

Me: Are you OK?

Her still sobbing: “I’ve just been attacked.”

Me: “What! Are you OK? Do you want me to get the police?”

Her: “No, no really it’s OK. It wasn’t that type of attack and they are the one’s who are going to get the police.”

Me: “I’m sorry?”

Her: “I was walking Sooty and he was having a lovely time but he chased a squirrel and the next thing I knew two women were shouting at me and saying I was cruel and I said I couldn’t help it that Sooty sometimes did chase squirrels and they told me he should know better and now they are getting the police!”

Ah London!

I stayed with the damsel and Biggs and Sooty had a great time chasing each other round and round. The Parks Police did come, looking very uncomfortable, and Sooty’s owner and I were told we needed to keep our dogs under control. The two accuser’s left and Mr Plod took both of us to headquarters where we were given tea and the dogs had the biscuits as he told us all about the terrible squirrel problem in Battersea Park.

Needless to say I saw Sooty and his owner in the Park many times after that gambolling free of lead and occasionally chasing squirrels. In all the years I had a dog in London –seven in fact – I never once saw any of them get caught!

So back to the problems of the countryside and hunting with dogs. I can’t prevent dogs doing dog things but the rabbits usually hear them coming and it is only occasionally that I have to deal with it. Nine times out of ten it’s one with myxomatosis. I carry a knife, which is usually not needed as my whippets are far too skilled.

As for the ones at the bottom of the garden, well a sharp knock on the window sends them scurrying and despite my dog’s enthusiasm there has never been a healthy one yet caught.