Rats

I think, for the third and final time, that I’ve got rid of the rats in our attic. But I have come to the age, and prudence, and maybe some old rat, dictates that it might be better for me to say, ‘We shall see.’

I have had a running battle for many years with the rats. I have taken out a few by poison; two by a .22 rifle used at night with a flashlight; six by an electronic device; and a couple by conventional trap baited with blood. Our cat has caught one or two and lost a fight to one last year. A few months ago I was driven to discharge four shells from my 12 gauge double barrel into their tree nest outside our bedroom window and that helped for a month or so. I know they are still out there but at least they are not in here.

This reminds me of a Robert Browning poem, ‘The Pied Piper of Hamelin,’ 1842):

‘Rats!

They fought the dogs and killed the cats.
And bit the babies in the cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of the vats,
And licked the soup from the cook’ own ladles,
Split open the kegs of salted sprats,
Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats,
And even spoiled the women’s chats
By drowning their speaking
With shrieking and squeaking
In fifty different sharps and flats.’

So, while enjoying my respite from the rats, I will conclude by quoting another of Robert Browning’s wonderful poems: (‘Pippa Passes’, 1841)

‘The year’s at the spring,
And day’s at the morn;
Morning’s at seven;
The hill-side’s dew-pearl’d;
The lark’s on the wing;
The snail’s on the thorn;
God’s in His heaven –
All’s right with the world!’