Rat-rat-ratting

We've been looking after Bruno this weekend because his master, Sam, has been off taking ayahuasca (a potent hallucinogenic mushroom) with Amazonian shamans. They've traveled up from the jungle with their bags full of the stuff and are administering it to Bogotanos in some woods near the city. His thinking was that a visionary experience would provide him with some inspiration for his painting. I'm not sure it worked though; we spoke to him yesterday to ask when he wanted to pick up his dog: "Oh, right, hello," a weak voice croaked, "I'm sleeping. In a deep place. Can you keep him another day? I'm just . . .er . . . ok . . . yes . . . thanks." He didn't sound too happy about the whole experience, but then you never know what you're going to see when you peer into your soul under the stewardship of a wrinkled old cove in a pointed hat whose job is to hit you with a handful of feathers every now and then. Other people I've spoken to about taking the stuff describe moving encounters with their 'power animal'. Without exception these spiritual totems are creatures like panthers or wolves, the sort of animal that you'd be happy to show off to your friends. But what of those who end up with guinea pigs or Shetland ponies as their guides-to-other-dimensions? Maybe that's what happened to Sam; perhaps he was disappointed to discover that his inner being was inextricably linked to hedgehogs or flamingos or something. We'll find out later.

Whichever way, I'm sure he'll be glad to be reunited with his real power animal - a small, exceptionally greedy tan and white Jack Russell terrier called Bruno Diaz. He's already proved his worth here by keeping the inner-city rats at bay. On Sunday morning I found him running round and round the oven in a state of high excitement. Using the international language of terriers he told me, quite clearly, that there was a rat hiding underneath and, with my help, he might be able to catch it and and call down savage vengeance upon its small furry head. But something was going wrong; every time he stuck his nose under the oven he would leap back with a yelp of pain and confusion. At first I thought we had come across some sort of super-rat not afraid to sally forth into the jaws of death. Then I remembered, the cooker wasn't earthed, and a dog's cold wet nose is a splendid conductor of electricity. Our landlord, Peter, did try to sort it out last week, after we'd all had several shocks. He ran yards and yards of cable from the cooker, up the wall, across the ceiling and out the door to some sort of gas pipe in the patio. "It's rather a bodge-job," he said, "but it should work." It didn't, as Bruno discovered. Eventually, after Chappy and I had poked broom handles into the gloom the rat wandered out and trotted off across the patio. Bruno either didn't notice, or pretended not to - he just stood, quaking, staring at the oven. I think I should send the results of this accidental experiment to a medical journal of some kind. It would be the final proof of the value of electro-convulsive aversion therapy if it can quash a Jack Russell terrier's inbred enmity towards rats.