Shrew tales

I am up early on these summer mornings. Usually it’s around 5.30am, ready to start proving the dough for my cinnamon buns.

I may be up but I’m far from at my most alert and awake at this time of the morning.

My first job is usually a sad one – cleaning up the dead voles, shrews and little birds whose corpses litter the hallway. The cats hunt at night and will insist on bringing their catches home to eviscerate. It’s horrible, but it’s nature, I guess.

If it’s too much for me, or if I’m running late, I yell for husband to come down and remove them. He’s very obliging that way.

I clean and disinfect the kitchen worktops, don the apron and hair covering, gather my baking things, weigh the yeast, melt the butter, warm the milk. Mixy, mixy, mixy.

Usually it’s a meditative time, the house silent and the sound of the birds greeting the dawn filtering in through the open patio door.

But this morning was different. Freya arrived with a live shrew in her mouth and dropped it triumphantly in the hall.

A shrew is not like a vole or a mouse. A vole is a plump little butterball of an animal, nervous and wary. A shew is a tiny thing with sharp teeth and a serious attitude. They fight back and they are indignant at being caught. And they’re fast.

It shot down the hall complaining loudly and squeezed under the pantry door. Oh no! The last place we needed it to go. I let Freya in. Silence descended whilst they both listened for each other.

I continued to prepare the bun dough. Freya got bored waiting for the shrew to emerge from under the shelves. She yawned and retreated to the food bowl. The shrew warily emerged and made a dash for the utility room where it took refuge behind the washing machine.

I was beginning to become resigned to having a resident shrew in the house when I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye whilst at the breakfast table. The shrew had emerged and husband managed to catch it and put it out.

And who says that rural living is boring? 😂