Au Revoir, Go-Pher!

I'm at war. And it has changed me.

A couple of weeks ago I went into the garage at night and turned on the light. I saw two intermediate-sized rats scatter. One ran across the garage door bar and leaped into the attic over the garage. First item of self-realization: when confronted by rats, I scream like a girl.

I immediately went to the store and bought every variety of awful rat-killer there is - snap traps, glue traps, poison, really nasty feral cats, and Dick Cheney. I thought about putting George out there, but would looking pretty and sleeping really scare the rats away? I placed the traps all around the garage and in the attic. The next day I inspected my traps. I caught two! But where the rats I had seen were small dachshund-sized, these were cute Disney-movie sized rats. Mrs. Frisbee and the Rats of Nimh rats.

I went and got bigger snap traps. A few nights later, snap! Two more rats. Children's book-sized. "Sylvester and the Wind-Up Mouse" cute. The next day I see one of the industrial sized ones on the outside porch. Again, I girl-scream. Blossom sees it and decides to spend the day indoors. Fierce dog.

I go to a new strategy. I'll throw open the garage door, turn on the lights, and scare the big rats into the traps. Fool-proof! Except the rat I startled was beanie-baby sized (Ratsy, born 3/12/05 - "Ratsy enjoys playing and cuddling"). And I also realized why rats are used in those experiments where they learn complex tasks. Ratsy leaped over the traps, pirouetted around the glue traps and skittered into the corner. The corner, however, was a dead-end. I grabbed the rake and approached the corner. I whacked the paint cans and the rat scooted across the garage. I girl-screamed and then swung the rake. I certainly in no part of me thought that I would actually hit Ratsy. Or kill him with one awful blow. Or that he would end up in a terrible, CSI-Rat crime-scene puddle of blood.

I have lost the stomach for this war. I haven't seen the rats in several days. Perhaps cleaning out the garage (and getting rid of the birdseed) did it. Or maybe the word got around of the awful man who smashes cute little rodents. They may be gone, they may be laying low. Who knows?

Killing Ratsy changed me. I decided against mounting his tiny little head on my wall, and I did not keep the pelt.

I'm not going to escalate this war any further. But I am leaving Dick Cheney out there, just in case.