The Rat And I
By day, the living room is mine.
by night,
per chance,
the rat’s.
Its timing? Elegant.
It makes its dreadful debut on a mid-week night,
as I sit at my kitchen table trying to write —
blissfully absorbed, after years of procrastination —
I sense a shadowy shuffle
then glimpse a soft grey body flop across my kitchen bench -
the very spot I’d cleaned just minutes since.
It pauses for reprieve behind a bottle of vanilla essence
had I imagined its foreboding presence?
its dark and beady eyes, its pink nose twitching?
the loathesome shadow makes its dash into a shopping bag
I scream and scramble to the stairs
the rat seems unperturbed.
The house? Unstirred.
Nobody comes running,
not even the rat.
My daughter laughs
as I giddily dial the number of my ex,
from the safety of her room
aren’t partners past or present eternally responsible
for manhandling a broom?
I am not without emergency skills
I’ve learned my safety drills
I rehome huntsmen with a single glass, identify my snakes and let them calmly pass, routinely check my dog for ticks.
All scary animals are ‘more afraid of us’ it’s said.
But in my dark past life with rodents
rats are triple dread.
And, it seems, I am their superior in fear;
so casually they saunter past me, one claw in the air.
My ex does not pick up,
so I call the good samaritan next door,
Dave, who looks like Jesus (if Jesus were six foot four),
goes dancing with a broom for an hour
to exit claiming ‘nothing’s there.’
The rat’s greased lightning,
now gas lighting,
it saunters past me, one claw in the air
On the second shift, my ex arrives
and boarders up the holes with chicken wire.
Nothing can get through that, he swears,
momentarily settling all my fears.
On the third shift, the rat catcher says
‘an adult rat can get through anything you can stick two ball point pens into’
‘How do I stop them coming in?’ I ask in dark despair
he laughs, then leaves.
The rat strolls past again, one claw in the air.
Days pass, and now I live a double life
Imprisoned upstairs like some tortured wife,
Each morning creeping down with care.
Nothing in the kitchen stirs,
but evidence is gathering.
A delicately nibbled peach — almost in the shape of a heart,
A just-ripe avocado decoratively torn apart, with some fruit left for me.
Tiny poo pellets scattered round like confetti
from a party.
The rat has claimed its shared domain
so I buy traps — the kind that are humane —
and bait them with delicious food:
pumpkin risotto — rats like that —
mango, brownie, blue veined cheese.
But the traps remain untouched
this rat’s a tease.
Still, a present from that interloper —
a tiny pile of poo, freshly arranged,
on one side of my leather sofa
is that furry villain
Netflix chillin?
By day the kitchen’s mine
By night, the rat’s
Afraid to cook, I clean and triple clean with gusto.
As I prepare my food in haste
a part of me thinks ‘give the rat a taste’
some of that cracker, or a corner of your toast?
I’ve read strawberry is alluring —
‘is avocado toxic?’ — did I read that?
Oh lord forgive me, am I bonding with a rat?
My life now shrunk,
I’m living small within my spacious home
Each filthy message from the rat feels filled with dreadful meaning.
It’s well past time for intervening
And so I call the rat man back.
‘There must be something you can do?’
He takes a tour, exhibit A — some fresh rat poo
Exhibit B — some nibbled fruit.
He walks serenely around my house
Then mockingly declares my rat? A mouse!
I drink champagne in the kitchen, spirit soaring
Afterall that drama — my issue? Simply boring.
Mice are easy to dispense, the rat man says.
Use common sense.
That same day, lounging on my sofa — feeling quite restored —
I hear a scuffle in the roof above my head.
Unusual to hear noises when I’m wide awake.
I fear, my mouse has now been dined on
by a snake.
