I began to write another column, then realized that it would be about England. I simply haven't been back here long enough to collect and narrate events, memories and feelings. Honestly, I'm still reeling from my four-month cottage adventure.
The other night I woke, shouting, from a nightmare about rats. I'd fought large ones, for a long time. Shocked by England's record-breaking icy, snowy winter these forest rodents, driven by hunger and cold, had boldly moved into the ruined cottage.
Nightly I retreated to the cottage's blessedly intact back bedroom as soon as it got too dark to see -- about 6 p.m. -- and fell thankfully into bed. My hot water bottle saved me from freezing. It was heavenly to snuggle down with four layers of clothes on, hugging it. (I heard noises, while drifting into a deep sleep, but shrugged them off.)
But as the days passed, and I tried to salvage what wasn't flood-ravaged, I began to realize the cottage was infested. I saw rats running along the walls from the corner of my eye as I cleaned. And I heard them. (Rats make high, unpleasant, raspy squeak-shrieks.) I laid down poison, and three days later I noticed bodies.
Once, while chatting in the ruined library, a dead rat clunked down onto my shoulder, from out of the collapsed ceiling. The workmen were horrified. I was delighted. Soon, bodies littered the house and garden.
For a few days, having heard and seen nothing, I felt smug. Gotcha!
Then, the second wave hit. One terrible midnight they were gnawing, gnawing, through the wall between the bathroom and bedroom. Those sounds were magnified, out there in the forest. Wall-banging helped -- for about an hour. I woke again to find three running across the bed. I leaped out, switched on the big torch, and yelled, angrily; alarmed, the creatures vanished through the hole they'd made. Furious, I covered it with a heavy bag of worksite nails. Those rats had met their match!
Time for the big guns.
I rang a friend who keeps horses, and she recommended her rat man. "He'll sort you. Dilbert lives to kill rats."
The guy, hearing my desperation, came immediately. A tall, whippet-slim, eager man in his mid-60s with tufts of clean white hair that stood straight up, he was dressed tidily in cords, with a collared, pressed shirt, and a warm vest. "Don't ye worry, lassie; I'll get 'em. Nary a tail will ye see ..."
He hugged me, grinned, then cheerfully began the hunt. That elderly man scoured every foot of ground within 70 feet of the house, climbed up to the roof, searched the eaves, explored the exterior stone walls, and investigated every inside inch. Occasionally I'd hear a delighted yelp, or a chuckle, sprinkled with "tsks."
Finally, we toured. Rats had simply stepped from the drooping branches of the huge cedars onto the roof, and entered through cracks, which they'd enlarged with sharp claws and incisors. They'd tunneled in under the foundations, and come up through the floors. Dilbert showed me where the earth was packed down; feces and bits of half-munched birdseed were beacons to this dedicated hunter.
From his car he removed six black plastic briefcases housing industrial-strength poison that kills, leaving no odor. These were strategically placed at well-traveled entrances. He plugged interior rat holes with tightly wadded newspapers. "If these are shifted, it tells me they're still coming." He paused, then added, quietly, "But the papers won't move." His eyes twinkled. "They're done for, lassie."
What happened then? Tune in next Sunday.
Dee Blair's Sunnybank Gardens are at 325 Sixth St. in Traverse City. Visit her Web site, www.deeblair.com for more information.
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