They say you’re never more than ten yards away from a rat.

In my home, I’m often just inches away from a dead mouse, vole, bird or something so mutilated I’m not sure what it used to be.

Last year I acquired two kittens, Betty and Bob, who turned from cheeky fluffballs into bloodthirsty killers practically overnight. Ruthlessly hunting down small creatures and dragging them through the catflap, they present their prey like trophies, so pleased with themselves they could burst.

I’ve lost count of the deceased rodents they have deposited in my hallway. I’ve only managed to outwit them once, when I spotted Betty playing with a live mouse outside and quickly locked the catflap. Minutes later, she was furiously ramming the unfortunate creature against it.

More recently, they have brought in birds, which are pretty vulnerable at this time of year. A few times I’ve come home to feathers strewn across the carpet, and even found what appeared to be a tiny head under the doormat. Nice.

Last week I awoke to the sound of Bob coming through the catflap, making the muffled mewing noise that meant he wasn’t alone. Cat owners get to recognise various tones of miaow, from “give me food now” to “don’t you just adore me for dropping this freshly-killed creature at your feet?”

Before I could leap out of bed, he’d appeared with a dead bird hanging out of his mouth, leaving a trail of feathers up the stairs. I heard that you’re supposed to praise your cat for bringing home prey, otherwise they’ll keep bringing more until you show you’re pleased. Another theory is that your cat views you as an “incompetent kitten” who needs tuition in killing, which is presumably why mine roll around in front of me tossing their little victims into the air.

They’re showing me how to kill defenceless woodland creatures – a skill which could come in handy next time I have empty food cupboards the week before payday.

Feeling more like a grumpy battleaxe than an incompetent kitten, I was in no mood to praise Bob for his kill. When Betty wrestled it off him, growling in a sinister fashion, it all descended into farce, with feathers flying everywhere.

Shouting something unprintable at them, I scooped the poor bird into a plastic bag and ventured outside, in my pyjamas, to chuck it in the bin. It felt like the closing scene of a Seventies sitcom. I half expected applause from a live studio audience.

If this is my version of The Good Life, I’m going to need a vat of peapod burgundy to get me through 2011.