Greville crouched amongst a pile of fallen leaves. Luckily, the leaves had fallen a couple of weeks ago and their colour had faded to a sullen off-white, matching the grey squirrel's fur shade perfectly . “A cull”; Greville had snorted in derision all those weeks ago. Now though, the ridiculous notion of a Grey Squirrel cull wasn’t so far-fetched. What should be done about the grey squirrel? A snapped twig was all it took. Where once the pile of off-colour leaves had sheltered the little grey squirrel, now there was just a small pile of squirrel poo. Steaming slightly in its freshness. “Bugger”; Bertram cursed, as he plucked a shard of wood from his rear paw. Bertram hated the woods in autumn. Too many twigs, ready to put a splinter in his soft, fleshy, limbs. The only thing that had made Bertram smile lately, was how the grey squirrels were made to feel uncomfortable by the prospect of a cull, and how it’d take the pressure off the badgers. Bertram wouldn’t harm the squirrel directly. Just scare the shit out of it, occasionally. “Maybe now I can get back to the serious business of …” The crashing of undergrowth cut short Bertram’s thoughts. In fact, Bertram was nowhere to be seen when the grounds-keeper blundered past the little pile of leaves, not even noticing the squirrel pellets under foot.