(All bleeding heart, liberal, no-kill rodent lovers should skip this entry.)
Farm cats kill things. Frankly, I need them to, or I would be overrun with mice. I can cover feed bins, but horses drop grain in their stalls. Chickens have cracked corn and fresh water constantly available - a veritable smorgasbord for mice.
I love animals - have I mentioned that? I'm quite willing to extend that love to rodents. One mouse by itself is adorable, all furry and sweet like Mrs. Brisby from The Secret of Nihm. A hundred mice - not so cute. At one time when I only had two cats patrolling the barn and coop, dozens of mice would scatter every time I opened the door to the chicken coop. It became a game for the two cats who would wait eagerly at the door, then dart inside when I opened it, and run out seconds later with a mouse clamped in their mouths.
There are now three cats living in the barn and two more that cover the perimeter. The only mice I see are the dead ones that the cats were too full (or too fussy) to eat. My cats are pros. The MVP of their team is Frieda, rodent killer extrordinarie. At least once a day she stands on the front window ledge with a mouse (or shrew, or mole, or chipmunk) dangling from her mouth, muffling her plaintive meows to be let inside. She wants to share. Isn't that sweet? The answer is always no, but she never quits asking.
I will spare you the gory part. This is Frieda, Terminator Cat, on patrol: