Foxglove August 27 2008

So plans are made and parents are asked, for the Young Entry would like to bring their friends, and this has to be cleared with parents. Suitable clothing and particularly footwear needs to be worn, and instructions issued about conduct, Health and Safety not having missed the Ratters.

New dogs must be assessed or else references obtained before they are allowed to join in, for we do not want fighters, or dogs that are not trustworthy with livestock and farm cats. It takes quite a lot of background work before we assemble on the day.

Here are most of the usual team, and a few new faces. Ahmed has brought Young Ahmed, and Bethany and Tom have brought some new friends. Wayne is here for the first time, so is Blake, and here comes Carrie with her dog Agatha. Agatha is a Dandie Dinmont, as long in the body as Dreadful the dachshund, with a bigger topknot than the bedlington terrier, and possibly a shared pedigree with the latter if you went back far enough.

Her jaws are huge, for her breed's original job was on different quarry, and Dandies are still known for their courage. Otherwise we have the whippet, shivering in the wet despite wearing his red coat, a smattering of experienced terriers mostly of mixed ancestry, and the customary brace of lurchers.

We tighten the string around our trouser legs or gaiter tops, and those of us with sticks step forward. Sticks are never to be used for swiping at rats, but only to knock them off the beams above us, and to lift up straw, piles of sacks and similar barn furniture that might have a rat lurking underneath. Outside, Dave fires up the smoker, for today we have technology, and smoke pours into the rat-holes around the foundations of the barn.

It is mere seconds before the first rats bolt and the terriers are in business. The whippet's coat is off, the lurchers are spinning and snapping up rats that try to scale the walls, and the bedlington has already killed his first.

Dreadful has dived under a pile of sacks, where he is evidently doing some good. Fat rats with scaly tails seem to be everywhere, and as they run along the beams, the taller among us wield our sticks to sweep the rats off their perches.

Dust rises in curls, despite the damp air. Agatha watches keenly but does not move from Carrie's side, and she would be embarrassed but there is not time. Some dogs take a while to enter to rat: some are born wanting to tackle them. If they are bred for the job, they will do it.

The smoker is switched off and we catch our breath. The foul smell of rat is all around us, mixed with the tang of the smoke and the dust haze, and we are glad of the fresh air and rain now. Young Tom has the heavy-duty gloves on, and is gathering the catch into a sack before we move on to the next area, which is the rough ground beside the barn.

Now Agatha is a different dog: she quivers as she scents all around in the wet undergrowth, pushing her way through the pile of flints that came from the old wall, her tail lashing faster as the scent she follows becomes stronger in her nostrils. She paws at the stones with her massive front feet, dives her great head into the gap and emerges with a rat curled around her jaws, biting her as hard as it can.

Agatha's ancestry makes her staunch: her eyes are pools of darkness as she closes her jaws on her catch, and it bites no more. Carrie is bursting with pride, and a great deep cry of congratulations comes from behind our little group as Stanislaus arrives straight from his night shift, just in time to see. Agatha shakes the raindrops from her face and woolly topknot, and we send the rest of dogs ahead of us through the next patch of cover.