Kindly Old Mr Brock it is not.

The dogs explode from the fireside with unnecessary vigour. I curse them and return to my book. The next morning as I view the havoc created by a trepasser, I wish I had paid them more heed.
A maurading band of brigand badgers, armed to the teeth with cutlasses, and possibly a JCB have clearly had a drunken brawl in my back garden. Fermenting perry pears, lying in their hundreds under foot, when coupled with a cheeky touch of ripe damson cordial have clearly gone to their heads and given them dutch courage and an ability to despoil the environment more commonly associated with a stag night in Ledbury.
Recalling more fun filled occasions on Polo fields, I flip the turves back into some semblance of place and grimly tread the divots.
The following night the situation is worse and on the subsequent night they have clearly called up reinforcements.
I set off for Countrywide, where, for some not insignificant outlay, I obtain all the paraphernalia required to convince them that my tender lawn is not the place for a link to the underworld, nor yet the perfect site for worm hunting.
My Jack Russells are clearly not playing the role of Cerberus convincingly, in fact, rather unsportingly they are utilising the escape tunnel under the fence to avail themselves of the rare opportunity to chase the neighbours cats.
Tomorrow the turf man returneth, and the electric fencing will be live.
I await the outcome.
In the meanwhile, if DEFRA decide to start selective culling they can hone their technique in my little plot!