Rats had overwhelmed our flood-ruined, single-story cottage in England; after battling them unsuccessfully for three weeks I hired a professional, Dilbert, who'd dispatched rats for 45 years.
Dilbert's wife cheerfully announced he had a 100 percent success rate. Perfect! After thoroughly exploring the terrain, he strategically placed multiple black plastic "suitcases" in and out of the cottage, with inviting, rat-sized entrances. Interiors held delectable, fatal niblets. Rattus rattus would dine, lick his lips happily, then painlessly expire, usually in three to four days.
Dilbert loved his work, and, eyes shining, he tackled this job with enthusiasm. It was a true rescue; I was desperate, exhausted, and needed a champion. Dilbert was a modern knight.
But now, having laid the traps, he sighed. "Now, lassie, this poison works wonders -- slowly. Lodge in Ross-on-Wye a wee while -- four days. You shouldn't sleep here, just now."
I resisted; no rodent would evict me!
That day my friend and I decided to clean the attic. Aaron opened the ceiling trapdoor, lowered the ladder, and ascended. I was about to follow, but then, suddenly, he stiffened, backed hastily down the ladder, and feverishly re-secured the door.
Twelve large, red-eyed rats had formed a ragged circle up there, and glared at him, whiskers twitching. Aaron is a farm lad, and I've never seen him quail, but now he turned to me, upset. "Get out of here tonight, Dee. These rats consider us invaders. Females are protecting their nests; I think Dilbert's right."
Healthy forests are full of animals, including rodents, and we lived nearly surrounded by a lovely wood. Rats are clever, quick to take advantage of a situation like mine, and they're social creatures. Normally shy and nonconfrontational, they were now in "protect" mode ...
I went into my sanctuary to make the bed, and froze. The walls were alive! Loud gnawing sounds radiated from new places, along with occasional, muffled squeaks. I realized that tonight could be very bad, indeed. I'd be stupid to stay here. There are times to hold the line, and times to fold up one's tent and retreat ...
I motored to Ross-on-Wye, to the ancient, beautiful Royal Hotel. A tiny, snug room became my home, for a mere token fee. The management knew my story, as I would sometimes eat a meal there and chat with them. That first night I showered for ages, savoring the hot water, then fell into bed, sleeping 12 hours. Breakfast, included, was luxury; for the first time in eons, I feasted.
Fortified, I motored home. Workmen and I ripped down ceilings, steamed off rotting wallpaper, sanded and applied full-strength bleach to moldy walls. Rat droppings were everywhere.
The third day bodies began turning up, between tools, amid bags of lime and plaster, and under fresh-cut replacement timber. I moved back the fifth night, to perfect quiet. Subsequent visits by the triumphant rat man confirmed it: my tattered home was reclaimed.
A week before I left, an amazed workman yelled and sat back from securing a cover over an electrical wall socket: Huge, languorous flies were emerging from these wire-crammed holes. We were fascinated. Finally, Aaron solved the mystery.
Rats had died in the walls; blowflies immediately laid eggs; mature flies were now emerging. DISGUSTING. True. Dilbert confirmed that, though there was no smell, a few rats had expired in there. The situation would resolve, eventually.
The cottage, rat-free, is lovely now, but I will never forget that battle for territory. Proper Trojan horses, full of lethal weaponry, used intelligently, had dispatched a most determined enemy.
Dilbert visits once monthly, to make sure.
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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