Rat-a-Phooey

That is what they say I said when they found me in the blackness after three hours; found me crouching in the blackness over the plump, half-eaten body of Capt. Norrys, with my own cat leaping and tearing at my throat. … When I speak of poor Norrys they accuse me of a hideous thing, but they must know that I did not do it. They must know it was the rats; the slithering, scurrying rats whose scampering will never let me sleep; the daemon rats that race behind the padding in this room and beckon me down to greater horrors than I have ever known; the rats they can never hear; the rats, the rats in the walls.
--H. P. Lovecraft, "The Rats in the Walls."       

I have rats in my walls.  Maybe, if I'm lucky, only one rat.  Singular.  But I don't know.

What to do? 

A number of years ago, I had a similar problem.  Well, I thought to myself, they're probably cute little fellows.  They're noisy scampering around, but they do no harm.  But it was winter, and food was scarce.  I discovered that they had been eating the bindings of my books.  A fatal step. 

With a single spring-loaded rat trap, I ended the lives of six rats within a two hour period.  They were hungry, and my traps offered peanut butter.  I made them offers they couldn't resist.  Unfortunately for them.

I was relieved to have them gone.  But I felt persistent remorse.

Rats, for most of us, played a benign role in our childhoods.  There was Ratty, of course, in Wind in the Willows:

When they got home, the Rat made a bright fire in the parlour, and planted the Mole in an arm-chair in front of it, having fetched down a dressing-gown and slippers for him, and told him river stories till supper-time.

Rather pleasant chap, eh?

As kids, we had a couple of rats as pet.  They were affectionate, and loved to be handled.  Their habit of scrambling up the inside of our pants leg was, until one became used to it, somewhat off-putting, but eventually was accepted as a sign of friendliness.  One of my nephews even now has about 25 rats as pets, each named and possessing its own individual personality. 

And there was Stuart Little, who is usually thought of as a mouse, but whose illustrations by Garth Williams show him as more rat-like.  (In fact, at the outset, the book informs us that although Stuart had been born to human parents, he "looked very much like a rat/mouse in every way.")  Stuart was such a moving, sensitive rat-person that his trials and humiliations broke your heart.

And finally -- subsequent to my massacre  of The Seattle Six -- was the release of the movie Ratatouille.  It's hero, Remy, was sophisticated (in that French sort of way), intelligent, kind, ambitious -- and, ultimately, an acclaimed Parisian chef.  What's not to like?  I have no comment as to the on-line debate as to who would win in a fight -- Stuart Little or Remy.  These debators are the same primitive humanoids who would like nothing better than to see a fight to the death between a giraffe and a unicorn.

Moved by young Remy, and reinforced by my boyhood experiences with rats, both actual and literary, I decided to handle my own present rat problem humanely, respecting the ratness of my house's rats as I would wish them to respect my humanity.

For about $100, I bought a number of ultrasonic noise makers, designed to make life so noisily irritating for rats, mice, spiders, and flies that they would break their unilateral rental agreement and move elsewhere.  I plugged my devices into electrical outlets in most rooms of my house, and waited for the Great Exodus to occur.

Nothing.  Although the experience for the rats was supposedly like our trying to live inside a jet engine, the noises in the walls continued.  Amazon, for once, didn't bother asking me to write a satisfaction report on my purchase -- they probably knew I'd been scammed.

Next, I spent $16, again through Amazon, for a live trap.  Bait it with peanut butter, the door crashes down, and you have a live rat waiting to be released to the great outdoors.  How far away?  Not until I'd bought the trap did I begin reading on-line expert reports on how to transplant the little devil.  Apparently, rats have excellent homing instincts.  I would have to carry them 5 to 10 miles away, experts opined -- and ten miles would be far better than five miles.  Otherwise, they'll return, perhaps bringing newly acquired friends with them. 

Also, a rat accustomed to a comfortable home in Seattle is going to be totally confused if dumped in a field or forest somewhere.  If he can't find his way back, he very likely will starve to death, or, alternatively, end up some larger predator's meal.  His chance of survival is minimal, and rats in the wild live only a year under the best of circumstances.  The kindest thing to do, almost all writers said, was to kill the little guy humanely.  And an old-fashioned snap-trap of appropriate size for rats is as humane as a rat death can get.

So.  I'm not happy.  Aside from sharing my house indefinitely with a rat or rats, who do tend to multiply, my only real option is to kill it or them.  Once more I turned to Amazon, ordering three rat snap-traps at $1.99 each.  They will arrive tomorrow.

The executions (one or more) are scheduled for my basement tomorrow at an undisclosed time  They will be private -- I'm not selling admission tickets.  I bear my rats no ill feelings.  I do not demonize them, as Mr. Lovecraft did in his story.  Rats try to live their lives as best as they can, as I try to live mine.  We all face forces we cannot overcome; we all, ultimately arrive at the same destination. 

I commend their spirits to the gods of small creatures, and ask forgiveness for my own self-centeredness in placing my comfort above their lives.