Absolutely!! I think Lucy is getting a bit slow now though, she missed catching one the other night. -- Lesley Residing in the Capital of Culture 2008 CBR600FW Peugeot 206 S SBS#11 (with oak-leaf cluster) BOTAFOT#101A UKRMHRC#12 BONY#54P BOB#18
My JR isn't dumb, she certainly isn't a yappy little fucker, as others from here can testify to. The next door but one neighbours dog (some bloody litle lap-dog) never fooking shuts up. I prefer to hear the rats scream when my JR gets them. -- Lesley Residing in the Capital of Culture 2008 CBR600FW Peugeot 206 S SBS#11 (with oak-leaf cluster) BOTAFOT#101A UKRMHRC#12 BONY#54P BOB#18
Manchester Terrier? Or any terrier should do it really. -- Lesley Residing in the Capital of Culture 2008 CBR600FW Peugeot 206 S SBS#11 (with oak-leaf cluster) BOTAFOT#101A UKRMHRC#12 BONY#54P BOB#18
We were out for a meal a couple of weeks back and the other couple mentioned they get deer in the garden. 'Mmmm vension' I say 'Why haven't you got the rifle out?' As the last words were leaving my mouth I remember they're both veggie. I'm thinking of what I can come up with for the meal on Sunday night now. MJC remind me I'm not allowed to bait veggies would you.
I'm sure she would do. I'd still have to store it for a day or two and I'm not convinced that having to move a lightly rotted deer out of the way to get at the tumble dryer would leave Adie in a good mood.
Well, I know three[1] that are owned by different friends and they are anything but. Yorkies OTOH. [1] Not a very large sample, granted.
Using the patented Mavis Beacon "Hunt&Peck" Technique, Eddie IANAE. I'd read the policy fine-print very carefully IIWY.
Many years ago, a mate of mine came across a road-kill deer while he was on his bike, a CD185 Benly. He managed to slung it across the top-box, bungy it on and ride home with it.
Unfortunately, I think you might be right: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/politics/health/3266079/Rat-infestation-threatens-UK.html
When I lived in North Devon, there was ample roadkill available - it appeared, mysteriously, at the same time as all the skidmarks on the tarmac and holes in the hedges re-opened: just after the first grocks of the year turned out to get in the way of urban traffic. Trade for my mate, the Recovery Operator, always quickened at the same time, unsurprisingly. On busy days, I was frequently called on to go and drag stuff in, in the evenings, or drag disappointed holidaymakers home overnight. One memorable occasion springs to mind - on my way to collect a local (for a change) who'd interfaced a local (no change there) tree on his way home from the pub over the moors, I had to swerve quite hard to miss a large deer lying in the road. Talking softly to make it up to the superannuated ex-RAC Ford A-series flatbed I'd just bounced off the scenery (the brakes were unutterably rubbish, no matter what we did to them) I switched all the lights on and backed 'er up to the deer. Slipping into my official flouro waistcoat and sliding down to the road, I investigated. He'd been a handsome specimen, had Rudolph. A Red interrupted while growing a new set of antlers, he was about the size of a small horse, and he was packing a pair of impressive haunches: "Plenty good eatin' on this one", I thought, casting a furtive glance into the darkness around the truck. There was no evidence of damage to him, just a bloody snout and an equally blood-filled eye. Bonus: quick and clean for him, no guts spilling out for me. Returning to the cab, I backed 'er up everso carefully right across the deer, leaving the cab section right above the critter. Taking the 'NightIntoDay(TM)' torch, I had a walk around to check for additional business in the form of the vehicle that had so obligingly taken out my horny acquaintance. Nothing visible, I returned to the scene of the crime and had a fag while considering possibilities. Shuffling the truck around a bit left His Deerness exposed, just below the door to the crewcab. Deploying the tarpaulin we used to cover up the FATAC wrecks, I rolled Rudolph onto it and lined him up beneath the doorway. Whistling a merry tune (which shall remain nameless for the sake of credibility) I dragged out the small hand winch and hooking it on to a ringbolt on the far side, looped around Rudy's front legpits and pumped him into the back of the cab. [I had made /certain/ of his demise, mind, having been caught out by the infamous dead sheep on the beach the previous Summer. Another mate of mine had the contract for removing carcasses before they upset people, see. He'd rock out in his ex-BT van (the sort with the square box body and a little narrow door rear centre, with three steps descending from it) and drag 'em off for Official Disposal (usually to his Dad's freezer, it has to be confessed). I'd gone along with him one day as he'd aready done a couple and was getting a bit wobbly - and the carcass was large and a good way from the road. We rocked up at the edge of the beach and we could see the hyuuge woolly body lying almost at the water's edge, having been deposited by the retreating tide, most likely. So we popped along to the slipway, nipped down it and bumped off it, driving down the wet sand to the sheep. The usual small fight ensued and I got the back end as usual. Rolling the critter onto its back went well, then it was only a matter of grasping the hooves and dragging the carcass up the steps and into the back. Have you any idea how heavy a water-soaked mature sheep is? Have a fucking guess, then double it and add a bit on for the wet sand in the wool. Sweat streaming and eyes popping, we got the dead weight into the van. Sighs of relief and wisecracks (Oi loikes to 'ave 'em on their backs, so Oi can kiss 'em) broke out, as did the mutual need to get out, siddown and have the inevitable fag. At this point, Sheepy woke up. Have you ever been trapped in the back of a BT van, with a shagged-out skinny bloke and a recently shagged-out but now furious - and massively panic-stricken - sheep? They have nasty sharp hooves, both of them - and, seemingly, more than their fair share of said sharp footwear. Not only that, but they both have hard heads, and they were both aiming for my bollocks. I did mention that the doorway is /narrow/, didn't I? Fortunately, the sheep made an exit rear centre, in a less than sheepish manner and fucked off to resume its waterside kip elsewhere. We didn't really care where, as long as it wasn't in the back of the same van as we were.] Once I'd got Big Red into the cab I pumped the winch a few more times and left him secured to the back seat where he wouldn't roll around and where he'd remain anonymous wrapped in his tarp. Job done, I had the compulsory and set off to find the man in the tree. Some time and several wrong turnings later (this was all long before such luxuries as GPS, Multimap and mobile phones) I spotted a Golf parked well off the fairway and into the rough. A rather sick-looking callow youth was sitting on the bonnet having miserable fag. I pulled up, dismounted and strolled up to him, then we had the usual conversation about how it wasn't his fault, how the tree had run into him and about how his Dad was on holiday ... and he had borrowed Daddy's car. It had been a tidy car too - a GTi, about six months old and as clean as you'd expect apart from wearing a tree where the hatch used to be. Negotiations took place, concerning whee he wanted to go and where he wanted the car to go. It turned out that Dad had left him a credit card too, so the repairs would be taken care of and he'd settle up with the old man once he'd found a way to confess. A bit of manoeuvering and a bit of winching later and the Golf was on the truck, matey was in the front passenger seat and we were on the way to the compound outside our favourite bodyshop. It was all going sweetly until I took a wrong turning and the road got narrower and grassier than it should have been. Exmoor is a bit of a trackless waste at one in the morning, but fortunately matey knew where we were and could set me right. A couple of shunts at tight junctions (the A series has a crap turning circle as standard, let alone with an extended rear end) and we were heading for civilisation, or at least as close as Exmoor gets to it. Matey had come out of his moribund shocked state and had entered the miserable phase, largely concerning what his Dad was going to do to him, multiplied by what his Mum would do to him for upsetting his Dad. A few junctions down the road it all went a bit wrong. A small car packed with pissed kiddies came screaming through a junction and as they had right of way I let them go by means of hitting the big brake pedal and applying full right rudder. We missed the car, missed the junction and stepped onto the grass, coming to a sudden stop as the front wheel hit a substantial rock. Matey bounced about a bit against his seatbelt and then slumped against the back of his seat. I turned to check on him, just as Rudolph entered the arena of conversation. Oh, deer. I hadn't belted the deceased in, had I? I'd assumed (and we know where that gets us, don't we?) that the winch cable, hooked through the seatbelt eyebolt, would hold him in place, neatly nestled in the corner of the back seat. The earlier bouncing about, then the sudden deceleration and the jolting stop must have flipped the hook out and allowed him freedom to follow gravity - forward and down. His head was resting on the seat back, between me and my passenger, turned somewhat to the side facing away from me. I'd never heard a human throat make that sort of noise before. Much confusion ensued: I was a bit dumbstruck really, but I wanted to laugh a lot. Well, a great deal, actually. Matey was rather more hysterical in his approach ... and in his rapid departure. Screaming something like: "Take the fucking car, I'm out of here!" he made a remarkable smooth exit cab left, punctuated by a resounding slam of the door. Further conversation was a bit superfluous, I guess. It was very quiet in the cab after he'd left; just me and a dead deer in a vacuum of calm, free from ululations and panicky thrashings around. I strolled around to the rear of the cab, checked the Golf was still on board, shuffled Rudy into a comfy place on the floor, extracted the truck and sodded off. Matey turned up at the bodyshop the following afternoon and handed over Daddy's card like the good boy I'd known he was ... but he never mentioned anything about his accident, how he got home - or the deer. I got away with that one, and dined on venison a lot afterwards.
Some are, others aren't. Some are more intelligent than people I've met, and they are the ones that make the best ratters, and great companion dogs if that's what floats your boat.
<round of applause> I laughed an awful lot reading that. And I shall post a google link to F, too, I think.
