Eva Bradley: My baby put fear into urban vermin

There are moments in our children's lives that make all the early mornings, late nights and dirty diapers worth it. Times when we sit back and reap the rewards of the blood, sweat and tears poured thanklessly into parenting.
It may be the first time a child says "I love you", or makes their own bed without being asked, or maybe you have to wait a little longer till they are graduating from university or walking down the aisle.
For me, the proudest moment of parenthood came this week when my baby caught her very first rat.
I know it isn't proper or even terribly cool to be all clucky and maternal about a dog.
In fact even though I'm one of the very worst examples, I can't help but snicker at the lame individuals out there who treat their pets like people and talk about them with their friends as though they are human.
But only the owner of a fur baby as cute as my little German Shorthaired Pointer, Greta, could truly appreciate the delight I took in an event that happened quite unexpectedly as we walked down Tennyson Street this week on the way back from our afternoon coffee.
Poor little Greta isn't well suited to being my receptionist, and finds sitting in my central city studio all day terribly boring.
The monotony is punctuated by the overwhelming thrill of stepping out to get coffee, and such is the simplicity of a dog's life that she actually turns cartwheels when I reach for my handbag and keys.
There isn't much for a dog to delight at in the middle of town, but Greta is easily pleased and takes her thrills where she can get them, usually by burying her nose into the air vents at the bottom of the art deco buildings and smelling the sweet, sticky scent of city slicking rats.
A hunting dog by trade, this isn't the life she was bred for, but eventually her happy disposition was bound to produce some good karma, and it came via a hysterical woman talking on her telephone in tones of animated distress.
The moment she saw Greta, hope lit up her eyes like the moment when a fast-moving cloud moves away from the sun.
Apparently, there was a rat the size of the Titanic inside her gift shop and along with presuming pigs might fly, the woman thought my dog might go in and get it for her.
Although Greta is a hunter by nature, nurture has turned her into a spoilt, precious and distinctly unhurried 21st century dog.
The idea of her catching a rat, especially one hidden somewhere inside a shop selling breakables, was optimistic to put it mildly.
But a mother's pride saw me send Greta in, believing in the impossible just because it was her.
And for the first time in recorded history, the optimism of parenthood turned out to be spot-on.
Within thirty seconds of entering the drop zone, a massive ruckus came from behind the counter, followed swiftly by a loud and pain-filled scream that sounded uncomfortably human.
Moments later my sweet little dog came out from behind the counter, triumph in her eyes and a disturbingly large dead rat in her mouth.
I think she was as surprised as we were.
Dropping the limp interloper in the middle of the floor, she trotted out, proud as punch, and happily received the astonished adoration of all onlookers.
As we both trotted back to the studio, Greta didn't waste her time sniffing at the street vents. She was a fair dinkum urban hunter, a bloodless killer, and in the gutters and dusty back streets of central Napier, her legend spread like wild fire and fear made the whiskers of every alley rat tremble.
Eva Bradley is an award-winning columnist.