Basil bunny used to bug me, then we made friends

And the hamster's name is Dave. Dave isn't the problem. My new best friend is. She doesn't like Dave. And she thinks she might kill him.

Now, before you ring the RSPCA, she doesn't 'intend' to kill him. Her attitude to hamsters bears no resemblance to, say, Pol Pot's attitude to those who opposed his unique brand of agrarian socialism.

She's not that kind of chick. She's kind. She'd nurture a baby sparrow if she found one in her garden, making splints from matchsticks and building it a house from one of the many boxes that once housed her Jimmy Choos.

You don't have to worry about my new best friend. If Dave moves to the Big Hutch in the Sky, it will have been an accident. Truthfully, if you want to call the RSPCA, report me. I once waged war on a rabbit. It was a long and testing war and the rabbit won. He was deserving of my opprobrium, having nibbled my raspberries.

Let me tell you how it began. I arrived home from work one evening to see Basil – a name he earned through hard toil, more of which later – nibbling at my raspberry canes. The canes were laden with fruit and Basil was filling his not inconsiderable belly with their leaves.

I took umbridge and telephoned a mate. "I'm thinking of calling the police," I said.

"Why," my mate replied. "They're not going to send a Panda car round to nick him. It's only a few raspberry leaves, it's not gold bullion."

"No, no, no. I'm thinking of handing him in."

"Why, what's he done? Is he on the run?"

"No, no, no."

"He's lost property."

The conversation ran into a cul-de-sac. I'd wished Basil might do the same.

I came up with a different plan. "I'll take him down the river."

"Does he like fishing."

My mate was no help and I deleted him from my contacts book. End of. See ya.

Basil, meanwhile, grazed happily on my raspberry leaves.

I hatched a different plan: water cannon. I blasted the creature with a hose pipe until he hopped off. He went as far as next door's garden. Then he looked at me with reproach. He sat on his hind legs, sneered a Bugs Bunny sneer and seemed to mouth: 'I'll be back', like Arnie in Terminator.

For three days I water cannoned and waited. He sneered and mouthed. And then I gave in. I adopted Basil and we became great friends. I gave him the run of my garden and he ate everything that had once grown within. The herbs – hence the name, Basil – were the first to go. Then the flowers, the shrubs. I'm pretty sure he'd have eaten the patio, had he not been so busy tunnelling beneath it. By the time Basil died, he was feral.

He died a happy death. I killed him with kindness. Basil took a fondness to my plums. He ate so many that he developed a dicky tummy. And sadly he did not live to see another harvest.

Dave won't become feral. He won't get the chance. He won't eat raspberry leaves or plums, he won't dig my new best friend's garden and he won't be pelted with a water cannon. He won't be reported to the police, be the cause of a failed friendship or sit on a lawn – or, in Dave's case, a small wheel – sneering Arnie sneers at my new friend.

You see my new best friend is an angel. She is so worried that she'll kill him that she's wrapping him in cotton wool. Dave is like Cleopatra. He drinks asp's milk for breakfast and listens to his R Kelly mixtapes during the day. Dave will live a long and happy life. Just like Basil.

By Andy Richardson