MUCH to my dismay the pansies, lovingly planted by my granddaughters last year, have been eaten.

For a while Brigadier was prime suspect as he was frequently caught in the garden, with a small, smiley pansy face hanging from his mouth, but despite keeping him under strict surveillance the plants have still been, undoubtedly, diminishing.

Following a week off work, however, the real culprit has now been identified as Sam the tortoise. This year, it would appear that Sam has definitely taken a shine to pansy leaves.

In the middle of the afternoon, when the sun is at its warmest, this tortoise has been on a mission, disregarding her usual favourites which include dandelion leaves, cucumber and wild rocket, in preference to munching pansy plants, leaving the little heads strewn across the flower bed for Brig to collect, along with the blame.

But when all is said and done the garden is there to be enjoyed by everyone, even if it does mean making the odd sacrifice, which reminds me of a time when my children were young and my husband was having one of his gardening phases. Borders were dug, grass seed nurtured and all was good, until the hamster died.

Now Rosie hamster had been my daughter's pride and joy, living in her bedroom, spending many happy hours running around the floor and siting on the desk stuffing treats into her pouches. It was sad enough that Rosie, albeit at a good age in hamster years, had passed away, but to make matters worse, there was an embargo on burying her in the garden, for fear of disturbing the plants that were just beginning to settle in.

Now my husband, not having had many pets as a child, (I think there was once a rabbit that was sadly eaten by a fox), simply did not grasp the importance of a dignified and meaningful farewell for a hamster and couldn’t see what was wrong with disposing of the furry little cadaver in the dustbin, the mere suggestion of which brought about fresh wails of anguish. My idea of a woodland burial in the nearby copse received pretty much the same response and then a friend suggested taxidermy. Tentatively, I put the idea of having Rosie’s body preserved to my daughter. "I think she means stuffed," added her younger brother helpfully.

With the aid of the phone book, there was no google back in those days, a taxidermist was located just 10 miles away and so the following day, having spent the night in our freezer, Rosie was delivered for treatment.

The house, I remember, was incredibly cold and decorated, eerily, with a selection of work in progress; seabirds in particular. But a couple of weeks later, for a not inconsiderable fee, Rosie was returned and there, you might think, the story would end, but unfortunately this was not to be the case.

You see, at that time we had two cats that, although never showing a vestige of interest in the hamster when she was alive, became obsessed with the small furry creature now mounted artistically, on a log. The obsession became so great that Rosie had to be kept on a shelf in my daughter’s bedroom, with the door closed at all times.

This was fine until my husband, having finished with the garden turned his attention to decorating the house and it was during this process that Vicky’s bedroom door was inadvertently left open. A large ginger cat was subsequently caught, dragging poor Rosie along the landing, still attached to her log. Her fur was wet and torn in parts and the children were hysterical.

It was mentioned at this point that, had the hamster been disposed of in the dustbin several weeks earlier as suggested, this situation could have been avoided, which wasn’t terribly helpful at the time.

The taxidermist, on the other hand, was extremely helpful and for yet another small fortune he repaired the damage and encased Rosie securely, in a small glass display cabinet where, I am led to believe, she remains to this day, still sitting on her log.