Have you ever known squirrels to eat raspberries?' I asked a friend who knows about nature and all that stuff. 'Only, I saw a squirrel in among my raspberries this afternoon and a lot of the fruit is missing.' He looked at me doubtfully. Actually, he's the sort of person who, if he doesn't know the answer to something tries very had to make you think you have imagined it. You come across his sort when dealing with computers. You say there's a problem, the computer 'expert', tells you that there isn't a problem because he either can't sort it or has never heard of it before so it can't possibly exist. 'Perhaps it was a rat,' said my nature expert. 'Well, if there's a species of rat with long grey fur and a bushy grey tail and which runs right up to the top of a 40ft tree like greased lightening then it was a rat. Otherwise, it was a squirrel', I said sarcastically. Adding that I do know my squirrels, I once nearly killed a whole family of them by putting out a slightly heavy Christmas cake with sticky icing which adhered to their little paws so that they stuck to the branches of their tree like Velcro and were in danger of being caught by the cats because they couldn't reach their drey in time. 'It was probably looking for nuts,' he said dismissively, so I didn't bother to argue that it was a poor squirrel indeed which didn't know its nuts from its raspberries. It was the same with the bats. When we moved in I told him excitedly that we had bats in the eaves. 'It's in the deeds,' I said, 'We're not allowed to do anything that might disturb them.' Not that we would. After all, there's not a lot you can do in the attic. You'd hardly have a party up there unless people like climbing wonky ladders and balancing precariously on the roof joists. I suppose they might be slightly disturbed by the pop music emanating from my granddaughter's room if they're not Kurt Cobain fans, and in that I'm with them. But otherwise they are free to get on with whatever they do in the eaves. I wittered on about how nice it was to have bats living with us but he got all superior and said they would almost certainly not live with us all year but just use our eaves to breed and then leave for better quarters after they had raised their young. So our attic wasn't good enough for all year round, just as a maternity unit. They would up and leave for warmer homes when the summer was over, unlike our stray cat who is quite happy to live at 1, The Wendy House, all year. But more of that later. Still, it is still nice to have bats for even a few months, and at least they aren't fruit bats, because if they were I wouldn't have a raspberry to my name. It's funny how people welcome some animals, even those which might make a meal out of their crops, and eschew others. A one-time colleague of mine used to have a theory that we only liked animals which would look cute and cuddly when made into stuffed toys. Even animals which are threatened species. Which is true. You don't see many warthogs or hyenas depicted in soft toy land, but dewy eyed seals and smiling dolphins are quite acceptable. Even moles, which are a real nuisance and can drive people to drink or violence, get a look in when it comes to soft toys. Rats are very unlikely to be provided in toy form for babies to cuddle, but squirrels, which are equally classed as rodents, are fine. It's that sweet little face and nice fluffy tail which does it, whereas rats are forever tainted with having long slimy tails and being associated with the Black Death. Apart from Roland Rat, who achieved fame a few years ago, perhaps as a bit of a welcome alternative to Gus Honeybun, that ever-grinning rabbit which kids loved but some mummies had an urge to strangle. I once interviewed Gus, or rather his handler, if that's what you call someone who shoves their hands up a rabbit's jumper! She was very sweet and referred to Gus as if he were a real person, saying 'we' rather than 'it'. She also confided that she carried a spare Gus in her holdall, in case something nasty happened. Kidnap or something. Or a sudden case of myximatosis. To be honest, I'm not really allowed to mention rats. I got in terrible trouble with the family a few years ago for mentioning that we had a rat in the house, a definite no-no in social circles, apparently. I suppose it is a bit of a party stopper when you casually mention that you looked up one day and noticed a large rat calmly preening itself in the fireplace. Any guests present certainly would clasp their legs together very firmly and lift their feet from the floor. So rat mentions are out, even if I did promise to call them 'little furry friends', rather than the 'r' word.

On the stray cat front, I'm under strict instructions not to encourage the black and white interloper. So I don't. Well, not a lot anyway. I don't think the occasional dish of food or water and the provision of velvet cushions in the Wendy House is encouraging. I'm joking about the velvet cushions, but not the food. Not that the cat is starving; if he was he wouldn't have turned up his nose at a plate of supermarket's own brand chicken and vegetable food which I had bought in the always hopeful, but usually in vain, search for a cheap cat food that mine actually like. As it was he took one sniff, shot a 'you must be joking' look at the window and stalked off. No doubt to another house where Whiskas was to be provided, or perhaps little delicacies like chicken breast and minced trout. One of the reasons why encouragement is not, well, encouraged, is that none of us could stand the noise when cat met cat head on, especially in the dead of night. Living in the country, I'm used to unearthly noises in the night. Foxes, owls, badgers, Kurt Cobain. But cat shrieks are different, they tend to reverberate round your head and you dread to find small piles of grey or ginger fur on the step next day. Now, however, there's a sort of truce. Weapons have been handed in. My two and the visitor keep their distance (about ten yards) from one another and only if they should happen to meet nose to nose coming round a corner is there a bit of a kerfuffle. The stray has obviously learned a little diplomacy, whereas initially he, or perhaps she, we never dare get that close, went in with no holds, or paws, barred. I'm fascinated by his personality. He's definitely a cat who walks by himself. He pads across the garden, never rushing, occasionally stops and looks at me through the window then off he goes on his rounds. On one or two occasions he has been friendly. He joined us at a barbecue, lying down on the grass quite close, watching for signs of a dropped sausage and keeping a wary eye out for the other two who were also sitting watching the cook. Sometimes he comes close, but only on his terms. If you put your hand out too quickly he hisses, and there's not many sounds which are more painfully warning than a cat's hiss, I know, I've got scars from previous encounters. I once found a stray female cat with kittens in an old hen house and although the kittens were fairly easy to handle the mother flew at me, attached herself to my wrist and proceeded to kick my arm to shreds. So much for gratitude. And so peace, at the moment, reigns. My cats have tactfully given up visiting 1, The Wendy House, the trespasser no longer sits in ambush outside the kitchen door. Things may be different when the weather turns, or I may have to provide some form of central heating in the Wendy House. The only other animal trouble we have is the periodic visit by a dog from up the road who rips our dustbin apart and scavenges leftovers. I fervently, but perhaps rather childishly, hope that the animal goes home and deposits a steaming heap of half digested prawn vindaloo, rancid chicken carcass and green sausage onto his master's best Axminster sitting room carpet.