The rat man cometh

I haven’t previously mentioned the latest four-legged friend that currently inhabits my garden for obvious reasons: a rat is not a possession to boast about. When the ice and sleet first kicked in, (there is little that resembles snow in Dorset), I had a day off work, feeling, in all senses of the expression, under the weather. Sick days are marked by an excuse to watch day-time TV: Bargain Hunt awaits. If we have a colleague who is feeling particularly depressed…and let’s face it, there are a lot of those around these days…we always suggest they stay home for the day, wrap themselves up in a blanket on the settee and watch the Jeremy Kyle Show. If nothing else, they’ll soon realize the people they spend Monday to Friday with are not quite as awful as they’d come to believe.

Anyway, as it was so cold and miserable, I thought I’d sprinkle a few nuts on the patio so I could watch the little birds. No sooner had I settled myself down, than Ratty made his first appearance on the decking. I emailed work for advice and had so many replies that it was obvious that a new wave of Bubonic Plague was imminent. Respondents had diverse ideas, mostly ranging from ‘draw the curtains and hope it will go away’ to ‘why not invite it in for company’. You can always depend on the sympathy vote.

I stopped feeding the birds for a week but, contrary to popular opinion, it made no difference: the rat became bolder and bolder. I telephoned the environmental health people at the council. They were about as useful as a chocolate teapot and offered to charge me £29.50 to come out and put some poison down. I can do that myself…I was thinking more in the line of traps. Now apparently, with poison, comes a moral dilemma. It seems the rat will die a long and lingering death which is inhumane. Yes, so is Salmonella and Black Death. B & Q do a wonderful choice of poisons. The shelves are virtually empty and the queues at the tills are three deep with folk clutching rat bait. (What about cats? Exactly: what about cats. Go and poo in your own garden). The poison comes with its own handy to construct cardboard boxes which I secreted under the decking. Helpful advice: if the poison disappears, the rat has eaten it. If the poison remains the rat has cleared off or is dead. No advice is given as to the meaning of the trays disappearing altogether.

Well, you can be assured that the rat is more scared of you than you of it they said. Oh yes? It no longer bats an eyelid if I make a lot of noise with the patio door; it just sits there and looks at me. And of course, I’m assuming it’s the same rat each time. In her usual helpful way, daughter number one, who has read Wind in the Willows too many times, suggests I give it a name. I have, I say. Oh really? What is it called? Bastard I reply.

I bought a trap and because I’m rather attached to my fingers, I asked Phil to come and help me set it. Phil says I mustn’t wear any perfume in case it recognises me. So when did rodents become au fait with Georgio Beverly Hills? In the kitchen, we fill the receptacle with peanut butter, a substance I haven’t seen for some time because, much as I like it, I am forbidden nuts. I’ve bought the smooth variety so I can eat the remainder. Phil tests the trap which means that, although he still has all fingers intact, the spring no longer works. We search the garden for twigs, find one and mange to keep the lever raised. We choose a suitable venue and the trap is set.

I came home from work today expecting to find a headless pigeon. Instead, I discovered that the empty trap is still set, replete with ingredients but, has been moved down the garden out of the path of Ratty. Now that is one clever rodent. The plot continues.