Foxglove

Heavy rain has flooded out the rats and they have shown their usual resourcefulness by moving into these buildings. We are about to show ours by moving them out again, one way or another.

At ground level we have the dachshund, the Bedlington terrier with the Crufts pedigree, the whippet, and five assorted terriers, one of which is a new recruit from a puppy farm. Despite her bad start in life she is a friendly animal and thoroughly enjoying the awakening of her working instincts.

We gather at the ready, trousers tucked into socks or gaiters and only one of us, George, wearing wellingtons. A rat down your wellies is an unforgettable experience but George reckons he'll take the risk.

Tonight, many of us carry long sticks, which is not our usual form, sticks normally being banned so that dogs and knees are not at risk. These sticks are only to be used above the ground for knocking rats off beams and walls. Two of us have powerful lamps slung across our shoulders, and Stanislaus, our crack squirrel shooter, is armed tonight with a catapult and pockets full of I'm not sure what.

The building smells of powdery mustiness, old wood and mould. Lank, clotted cobwebs surprise us as they trace over our heads and hands and dust shifts as we move into position. The lampers stand at either end and suddenly the building leaps with light and shadow.

Rats scurry from the bait stations that we put in a few days ago and the dogs pitch in with speed and verve.

First blood to the whippet, who leaps twice his height off the ground to snatch a running rat off the wall.

The terriers whirl and spin, and Stanislaus, balanced with legs astride, hits a rat amidships and knocks it to the ground, while the rat that was running the rafters behind it sits up on its back legs, perplexed, before falling in its turn. It never reaches the ground, for the whippet has snatched it in midair, while the terriers scrabble under old sacks and punch out a rat that thought it had got away.

The dachshund moves in a series of skips, his long back giving him an agility that few would reckon on. He is a true hound, determination in every line, and with a deceptively strong jaw.

Standing like a statue of the glorious revolution, Stanislaus pings rat after rat off the beams while the lamps cross like searchlights.

There is little noise: snuffles and the odd muffled yip from the dogs, a sneezing fit, canine or human, from the rising dust, squeaks and crunches, the snap and rattle of sticks raised above, and the occasional unfortunate phrase that the children are wise to ignore.

Time stands still while we concentrate hard on our task, breath steaming in the cold.

At last, the rats stop coming out and we switch on the main lights to count the slain. There is that distinctive smell of rat that stings the nostrils high up.

Now is when we have to watch the dogs, for they are excited and ready to take offence at each other. Owners check muzzles for bites and sharp reprimands greet any sign of a raised lip or stiff-legged advance.

Hands protected by thick industrial gloves, Harry counts the rats as he puts them in a sack. We have a goodly tally and there will be more another day but by different methods, for rats are highly intelligent and the survivors will have learnt what the bright lights mean.

Time now for chat and further plans and asking each other if we saw this or that amazing catch. We are filthy from dust, cobwebs and heaven knows what else, and the stink of the building hangs about us.

It is past all our bedtimes now and we set off on our different journeys home, looking forward to a hot shower and change of clothes and raising a glass to the sporting rat.