Mission Accomplished

 

Untroubled by bad weather or cold or squirrels, the little dachshund follows his nose straight to the back fence and gives the alarm – a number of neighborhood dogs in hearing distance cheerfully respond – as if they were all saying Nobody’s getting by us! It’s a regular canine chorus in several languages and it cuts through the chilly morning air like a knife.

He makes his rounds then heads back to the house, walking with that special dachshund kind of strut and confidence, then he gets to the corner of the garage where the two motion security lights are hung and he goes into attack mode. They don’t light up in daylight but their being there is enough to set off his early warning detection system. He digs in a few feet away from them, braces himself and begins to bark. And bark. And bark. It’s enough to wake the dead never mind any still sleeping neighbors. When he’s satisfied that he’s put them in their place, he makes a wide circle around them and trots back to the deck, head held high, tail wagging ferociously. Mission accomplished.

Back inside, he waits patiently for a treat and when he gets it, he trots briskly off to the sun room and parks himself on the love seat. By the time I get there, he’s already better than half asleep and he grudgingly makes room for me. The baby is already snoozing, the cats are here and there. All is right with the world. I pull the throw over us and we all go to dreamland.

Rats in the Attic

 

The second time I heard the noises, it was already dark on an unseasonably warm February night. They were coming from right outside the dining room window where the massive pine tree leans against the side of the house. It was a combination of scratching, pawing, small thumps and possibly chewing and try as I might to write it off as my imagination, when the old tabby jumped up on the window sill and peered out into the blackness, I knew it was real. Something was trying to get in - or maybe out - of my house. I managed to locate a flashlight and reluctantly headed out into the yard, approached the tree from both sides, and saw absolutely nothing except the giant tree trunk and random clumps of pine straw and small branches. Summoning courage I wasn’t sure I even had, I moved closer and gave one of the limbs a good shake - it was immediately answered by the sounds of scurrying and I was so startled that I nearly lost my balance. But for the sudden and very unwelcome vision from “The House of Usher” where Vincent Price muses about hearing “rat claws within the stone walls”, I would have fallen and likely have been buried for all time beneath the mountain of dead leaves that were piled around the base of the tree. Instead, I clutched the flashlight like a loaded gun and frantically backed away, not caring whether the scurrying had been out of sight on the roof or actually inside the walls. I fled like a rabbit for the safety and light of the front yard, up the steps and through the door as if the devil himself were at my heels.

Most likely a squirrel, I decided, annoying and probably destructive but no great menace. Unless of course it was a rat. The scurrying had been too quick for a raccoon or possum and a cat would’ve been vocal. Unless of course it had been a rat. A squirrel truly seemed the most common and probable intruder. Unless of course it was a rat. I thought back a few years and remembered the rat crisis at my friend, Michael’s, how I had regretted the poison we’d used, sworn I’d never use it again. Even so, a call to the exterminator seemed the best first step. Before I could devise a plan of attack, an examination of the attic was clearly in order and I knew just the man for the job. It’s not that I’m afraid of squirrels or raccoons or possums or even rats - but I am afraid of the unknown and the idea of crawling into a dark attic with God knows what kind of unseen creature hiding in the shadows, red eyed and rat clawed and ready to pounce…...well, not my cup of tea.

Dexter the Exterminator arrives the following afternoon, reassuring in his green jumpsuit with
his name emblazoned on the back and over the front pocket.

He brings a ladder and a flashlight, dons a pair of heavy gloves, and fearlessly climbs to push back the attic ceiling panel while I wait anxiously below.

“Rats,” he tells me a moment or two later, “Tell by the droppings.”

“How bad?” I ask with a shudder.

Being a man of few words, he shrugs and says “Seen worse. Put out some poison and inside of a week, no more rats.” He sees my expression and I suspect he’s remembering the siege at Michael’s. “Ain’t no humane way to kill’em less’n you trap and release,” he says pointedly, “And there ain’t no practical way of doin’ that, is there?”

I admit there’s not. I hate it but don’t have a better plan. He pulls off his gloves and picks up the ladder and flashlight then takes pity on me.

“There’s times in this job when I don’t much like what has to be done,” he tells me kindly, “I know you ain’t the kind to countenance sufferin’ even if it’s just a rat. But sometimes you just gotta do what’s got to be done.”

Sometimes that’s exactly what you gotta do.

Dickens & Friends

 

When I was growing up, books by Dickens and his crowd were kept in the bookcase in the living room. You’d have been hard pressed not to notice the gold lettering and the imitation leather bindings, proudly provided by my mother’s Book of the Month club. The books she actually read – paperbacks all, with lurid covers and big text – were kept cleverly buried in a bureau drawer in her bedroom, stashed beneath mounds of moth eaten and neglected underwear. I remember two titles most vividly – “Peyton Place”, a scandalous novel of life in a small town by Grace Metalious and “Mandingo”, a racist tale of slavery and black on white sexual assault, if the cover was any indication, by an author I’ve forgotten. Both were clearly well read and dog eared, their covers faded and torn, their pages stained in some places. I imagined my mother reading these forbidden books late at night after everyone was asleep and felt more than slightly sickened but also burning with curiosity. What I was not, was the least bit surprised at her literary taste. I’d long suspected that the living room bookcase was not a place she visited except to add the latest book club selection once it arrived. Unless my daddy were to pull one down (he favored Mark Twain), the books were unopened and intact and soon dusty with neglect. To my mother, the bookcase was full of strangers, the underwear drawer, old friends.

By current standards, these ragtag paperbacks weren’t much. It was the idea that my mother hid them that was so intriguing. She would routinely pitch a fit if she caught me with one of the popular romance magazines – harmless (if trashy) badly written stories of good girls gone bad and first love – to her, they were borderline obscene, promoting the idea of promiscuity and the downfall of virtue. I was just old enough to understand and recognize hypocrisy but worse, I knew a weapon when I saw one and the smutty secrets of the underwear drawer were definitely on my side. I actually hoped for a chance to use them, now and again would even think about intentionally provoking her to bring on a confrontation. I’m not entirely sure why I never did. Perhaps I knew the risk of my daddy taking her side. Alliances in a family like ours tended to change with the prevailing winds and it wouldn’t have been the first time.

My mother tended to win her battles by whatever means necessary. She would use threats, blackmail, tearful tantrums, guilt or manipulation without a qualm. Well armed or not, taking her on was a risky piece of business and caution and courage (most folks, myself included, were long on the first but lacking in the second) were required. As my daddy already knew, sometimes being right isn’t as important as being at peace and the sad fact was that enabling was always easier than standing your ground. So I never mentioned the underwear drawer books. Just knowing they existed was enough.