A Rat Tale – Part 2

Last week when we left our tale (tail?) of the uninvited Mother’s Day visitor (A Mother's Day Tail), my wife and I continued on with brunch preparations for our human guests – thinking that we had trapped the crafty critter (a big, hairy rat, in case you didn't read the story last week!) upstairs in our bedroom behind closed doors.

But no-o-o-o. As I would soon find out, the wily, long-tailed terrorist had sneaked out of our bedroom while I was tearing the room apart trying to find it. Somehow, unbeknownst to us, Osama bin Rat had already made it downstairs into our family room and was hiding behind some cabinets.

As our guests arrived and my wife and I prepared brunch in our kitchen, I was standing where I could see down into our split-level family room. Just as I happened to look in that direction, a dark, stealthy shape skittered across the floor from one side of the room to the other. It took every ounce of restraint not to fling the carving knife in my hand at the intruder. Well, that and the fact that my mother-in-law was sitting directly in between me and the rat. 

I don’t remember the exact words I blurted out upon seeing the beast, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t appropriate for either the mothers present or for a Sunday morning conversation. But holy cheese-eating, pellet-pooping intruder, ratman! – the dang thing had escaped our bedroom and was now even closer to our food and family.

However, not wanting to throw too much of a hissy fit in front of guests, and seeing as how brunch was moments from being served, I convinced myself that the rat would be too frightened of all the people to come up into the dining room/living room while we ate. Of course, I was wrong.

No sooner had the salad been tossed did the wretched rodent ran out from the family room, through our dining room, across the hearth in the living room and under the sofa.

And so, while my hot brunch slowly cooled on my plate, I proceeded to search under and behind the couch, the easy chair, the piano – you get the idea. Of course, no sign of the rat could be seen until I sat back down to eat my meal. Then it would come out and taunt me with its ratty ways. This would continue until the rat made the fatal mistake of climbing up my wife’s delicate, sheer curtain panels where I could see its shadowy progress even though it most likely thought it was hidden from view.

I don’t think I said anything as lame as “I’ve got you now!”, at least I hope I didn’t, but I quickly grabbed a metal-handled broom we had bought the day before, got a two-handed grip on the thing, cocked it back like Hank Aaron at home plate and swung for record books. Whack! The shape behind the curtain dropped to the ground. Unfortunately, it was only stunned, and briefly at that. To save our family (and my dignity), I went at the poor thing like that kid on the car commercial whacking away at the VW-shaped piñata. The more the doomed creature tried to escape, the faster I played the drum solo from In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida on it. It wasn’t a proud moment.

As I swung the broom again and again, the classic western scene played in my mind where a panicked gunslinger has already killed his adversary and emptied his revolver in the process, but can’t stop pulling the trigger. “Click! Click! Click!” I expected my wife to put her hand on my arm and say something comforting like, “It’s over honey, you can stop now. Please. Stop.”

When I called my son (the hunter/fisherman/University of Montana student) later to brag of my heroism, he was so proud of his old man that he suggested I etch a “sniper’s notch” in the broom handle to signify my kill. I’m leaning more towards painting a rat silhouette on it. My wife wants to burn it.

As I quickly dug a hole in our flower bed outside, fueled by my leftover adrenaline buzz. I tossed in the vanquished beast and covered it over with dirt and couldn’t help but pause a moment to think about what had just happened.

A life had been ended. By me. What if that stupid rat was a mother of little baby rats? Or the father of a litter of little rat children and all he had been trying to do in our house was to find food for his family. I try and do that on a daily basis. (And I have to say, in this economy I often feel like a big giant is after me and swinging a broom for all it’s worth!)

Maybe I’m just getting soft as I get older. But now you know why I’m not a hunter.

On the other hand, as bad as I feel about offing the terrified creature, I have to admit I also felt more than a bit of testosterone intoxication at being called upon to successfully protect my maiden and castle against the intrusion of such a nasty beast.

And in my defense (lest you think I’m a heartless, ruthless rat eradicator), my wife and I had opened various doors to the outside world in hopes that the rat would see an obvious escape route and take it – leaving our house relatively unscathed (except for the damage to its eardrums from my wife’s initial scream upon discovering its ratty presence). For whatever eason, it chose to ignore these obvious paths to freedom. But we certainly tried less lethal ways to resolve the situation. So, please – no PETA pickets outside my house, okay?

There’s a life lesson in here somewhere, I can feel it. What only minutes earlier was terrorizing a houseful of people would now be fertilizing a rose bush. The circle of life. Kumbaya. Hakuna matata. Whatever.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

Note: This is a longer version of my column first published yesterday (5.19.11) in the CV Weekly newspaper (cvweekly.com).

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