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.