pest control

Frank and I have been dabbling in amateur pest control, or rat control to be more precise.

Yes, for the second time this year we have rats in the house. Well not actually in the house as such, but in the walls. And in the laundry, which is enclosed within the four walls of the house, but removed from the main section of the house via a separate door in the back of the house. Anyway, there were rats in that there laundry!

The nasty pestilence first came to my attention mid-vomit the other night. I know. Timing! As I was clearing my stomach, I heard a rustle in the bush outside. I immediately thought I was being stalked by a peeping tom, climbing the flimsy pittosporum outside our naked bathroom window in order to observe my most excellent stomach pumping action. As peeping toms are want to do. In the middle of the night. Watch someone vomiting. Right. But just in case my overactive imagination was correct in its far fetched machinations, I turned the light off and tiptoed to the window to stare them back in the face.

Of course there was nobody there and I went to bed and slept as only someone who has felt and faced the fear of a stalker can.

And then the next morning I heard them again. In the wall. The rats. My peeping toms returned to haunt me.

Shortly thereafter I found the laundry (rustic cavern beneath the house equipped with hot water system, washing machine, clutter and spiderwebs in the style of a true under-the-house laundry) littered with droppings. Frank came and rustled around, but apart from a few chewed boxes containing my precious journals, we could find no evidence the critters had moved in.

So we baited them. With four big blocks of heavy duty rat bait scattered around the laundry. That ought to get 'em!

Sure enough, this morning three of the blocks had disappeared completely and the remaining block looked decidedly nibbled. Success! We could almost see them rolling in agony around their dirty little nests, or better yet, dead already! All seemed to be progressing according to plan.

Until we got home from a little jaunt this morning, to find, lying prostrate and deathly still on the ground in front of us, Clive the sheep. Dead, we could only assume.

What had we done? Killed Clive along with the rats? If only we had nailed down those bait the way the packet said! If only we had not assumed the rats would clasp their deadly treasure to their chest and never let it go! We'd killed Clive with rat bait! How could we ever live with ourselves?

How can I describe the most wonderful relief when Clive lifted his little head and stared balefully at us, telling us with his eyes that he was not so pleased to be woken by our arrival! (Did you know sheep yawn? They do! Clive yawned the other day in another prostrate moment)

Giddy relief, blood through the veins, embarrassed laughter! Clive was OK. We didn't kill him. But we sure as hell hope we killed those filthy rats!