Visitors - nice and nasty

The Nice
It was getting late in the evening, around 9pm, the frost already glistening in the moonlight but our country silence was broken by a heart wrenching howl, bordering on screeching.  Hunky Hubby and I donned gumboots and jackets along with headlamp and ventured out in the darkness to identify the sound, worried that a dog had been thrown from a truck and was entrenched somewhere in the paddock.  Once outside the paniced creature went quiet so Hunky Hubby went to get the car, we were going to need much more candle power if we were going to find this hound.
It wasn't long before the headlights identified the glistening orbs of two terrified eyes reflecting out of the darkhess and only a few minutes longer to encourage a cold, wet and fearful Labrador/Beardie cross between the fence railings and into the car.
We drove our passenger to the nearby farm but no one was home so back to ours and secured him in the shed with the creature comforts of a duvet, a feed and a bowl of water.  He seemed placid enough but all creatures in shock behave accordingly so until morning, this poochy was going to have to accommodate a little rough. 

Phone calls were made to local farms with no joy before bed but I was confident someone was going to be looking for our late night visitor and if not, he would have a good home with us.
The next morning the first port of call was to allow our shaggy intruder out for ablutions.  No interest in the ducks or chooks who were already up and vocal inspite of the early hour.  A feed and a cuddle and back to bed for a bit longer.
I got on the computer and created a flyer with a couple of pictures taken at day break (to drop off at the butcher and local supermarket) and then I took our visitor for a truck ride to the vet to see if he was microchipped, alas he was not.  He wasn't recognised by the staff either so after leaving a flyer, it was back home.
I decided this gentle giant was definately a much loved pet so risked bringing him indoors on the lead, assuming he would rather snuggle in front of the fire instead of be left in the shed or in the garden.  No aggression towards Taiza, no interest at all in Monster, the cat, so things were looking really good.  I was liking this old boy a lot.
And then a knock at the door changed everything.  A gentle man and lady stood apart from my ice clad path on the grass trying to snatch a little warmth from the watery morning sun enquiring if I had found a dog, anticipation and tentative excitement spreading across their faces when I opened the door and called to my visitor 'Mummys here'.  As the woolley mammoth made a bee line for the gentleman, the lady was hugging me furiously thanking me for finding her boy.  Apparently she had called one of the farmers in the morning that I had called the night before and they told her where he was having his overnight vacation, thank goodness for the country grapevine.

His name is Guinness and he is seven years old and like my smallest chook with the same name, a bit of a Houdini.  One of three dogs, him and his smaller companion managed to sneak out through a hole in the fence at their home about 5 km from ours.  Once free it was likely the lure of a runaway rabbit across the fields that found Guinness in one of ours.  Lucky for him, and his family, he had been discovered by like minded animal lovers and was well taken care of, and now he's returned home to his family.
The thank you card that followed from his folks mentioned that come Thursday, Guinness has an appointment at the vet for microchipping. 

The Nasty
Each evening before bed, Taiza has a nature call.  This is also the time that I check on the ducks to make sure everyone is bed and often put the drier on a bit longer in the shed for the evening load of washing.  This night I could hear some scratching in the chook shed against the metal walls.  In passing I commented to Hunky Hubby that perhaps there were some rodents in the shed but then it was quickly dismissed.
A couple of nights following the three amigos were still outside in the cold and damp when I did my nightly rounds, under protest I eventually had them rounded up but the next night it was the same scenario.  Convinced our terror tunnelers were back we donned the trusty headlamp again and searched the chookhouse, lifting the straw and the wooden pellet beneath, sure enough there was the evidence, piles of dirt and stones on top of the flagstones.  As it was late and very cold, we threw in a poison bait and put everything back for the night.
The next day I was back pulling the shed apart, this time lifting the flagstones as well and found the loose bait in the middle of a large nest along with a decent pile of chook food.  I destroyed the nest, filled in the tunnels, nailed baits to the underside of the pellet and after taking a mental note that there was more tunneling under the nesting cupboard, put everything back until the weekend when there was more time.
That was a couple of days later.  This time I took all the straw out completely.  Because the three amigos sleep in the chook house, I cover the entire shed in straw to keep them dry and to stop me from slipping, its so easy to remove a fouled slab of straw and replace it with fresh.  The soiled slab goes straight out to the garden under the trees as fertilised mulch so nothing is wasted.
After moving the cupboard, and filling in the tunnels beneath I decided to check the baits under the pellet and there she was, big and brown and nasty.  Initially I was going to stomp on her but then I envisaged her running up my pants leg and freaked myself out.  She somehow managed to squeeze under the flagstone and made a bee line for the exit under the wall of the shed that I had filled in.  I could see her tail under the corner of the flagstone so jumped on it and discovered it had movement so I jumped on the opposite corner to provide some lift.  For a few seconds I stomped on the flagstone in the method of a see-saw.  I stopped briefly, the tail twitched so a few more stomps.  I'm no light weight so she had to have succumbed to the pounding pressure of my stomping.  Gingerly, using the pinch bar, I edged up the corner of the flagstone.  Her head and shoulders were under the wall of the shed and her hips and tail inside.  I had to make sure she was dead and not suffering so I pulled her out by the tail and gave her a quick sharp smack to the skull with the hammer, and then I felt sick!.  I had just killed one of God's creatures that I had no intention of eating.  I stood and prayed for forgiveness at the same time proud that I had just killed the rat that was tormenting my ducks.  I was hot, sweating but proud, but I got the bee-arch and even took the photo to prove it.