Well, ppeat - Little Sally Whiskers remains invisible, and none of the dogs are sniffing in an interested fashion around the sheds, or the hole in the fence (which they normally do if we have a nocturnal visitor), so maybe we are Rat-free.
(Mind, it has rained for two days solid here, so anything I squirted round is probably washed away, and Little Sally could be in a watery grave . . . and now I've upset myself thinking of that. Her little bright, black, beady, sparkling eyes; her delightfully slender and trembling whiskers; her beautifully conch-shaped, fragile ears, as though carved from rose petals; her tiny hands . . . . . . her prehensile tail, like a thick, hairy, ropey snake; her long, sharp, yellow incisors . . . her triumphant , gloating expression as she shoots away unscathed . . . Nah! I'm good with it. Let her drown . . . )