The Flying Rat by Patrick Callaghan

My youngest sister's cat was called Jerome (NOT Jeremy), looked like a pure black Siamese and was, purely and simply, a killing machine. One Saturday afternoon Mother, as usual, was working in the kitchen when Jerome brought her a 'present'; a sparrow. Without wishing to cause a trauma by rejecting this display of unsuspected affection the bird was, nonetheless, consigned to the fiery heart of the Raeburn.

A few minutes later, the proud feline laid a robin at the feet of a 'Marigold'-gloved Mother. The discomposited (if this isn't a real word, it should be) atoms of the robin followed those of the sparrow, up the chimney to the 'great nest in the sky'. Jerome was rewarded with a tap on the nose; Mother's yellow card.

The Callaghan family's reputation of always going one step too far had obviously rubbed off on the ebony furred Torquemada because the next feathered friend that arrived in the 'jaws of death' was, of all things, a wren! Not only was he attempting genocide, he came damn near to attempted suicide when Mother turned round with a very large and very sharp knife in her hand and saw one of our favourite birds looking suspiciously like 'something the cat dragged in': Red Card! Tap on the nose and a forced ejection from Mother's kingdom.

Eventually the kitchen was declared to be in a fit state for the next assault by the horde of barbarians that she sometimes, under pressure, admitted were her family. Carrying a mug of herbal tea and wearing the self-satisfied look that only mothers seem to be able to get away with, she was halted while passing through the dining room by a strange growling emanating from underneath the oak veneered table that could seat ten adults comfortable, or her four children with difficulty. The furry fiend had decided that he didn't want his food cooked this time, and had taken refuge in what would normally have been a pretty safe spot to enjoy his snack.

At least this time he'd picked on something his own size, literally! We were sure that the rat had had a fighting chance, but it still lost.

Slightly annoyed, if not to say slightly ballistic, Mother picked the rat up by its tail (she'd been trained as a midwife) and poor Jerome not only saw his dinner being removed, he had to suffer a 'maternal lecture'. Well into the diatribe Mother became aware of the uncomfortable fact that the rat wasn't dead! The give-away was that it was climbing up its tail, getting its fangs just a shade too close to her hand for ease of mind.

Maybe Andy Irvine has scored with as much skill as Mother got rid of the offending and offended rodent; opening the outside door she drop-kicked the animal and watched it sail over the fence into the next-door neighbour's garden. Later she opined that it might have been better if she HAD been bitten.

The neighbour, a gentle widow who looked older than Moses was hanging out her washing when suddenly an enormous and VERY angry rat flew past her face and landed in her laundry basket. She had obviously never been trained as a midwife because she promptly fainted!

Luckily she screamed; Mother then had the 'excuse' to investigate and revive the dear old lady instead of locking all the doors and pretending to be in Australia.

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