Not Mother Teresa

I walked into the garage. Sitting looking at me was a rat. “Hello Mum,” he said. He gave an embarrassed chuckle, and continued: “I wonder if you can help me. I seem to have gotten myself into a spot of bother, and I can’t work out what’s wrong.”

What an incredibly polite & well-educated rat! I thought to myself fleetingly. That thought competed with another: “You call me Mum?!” I asked aloud.

Again the rat gave a slightly embarrassed chuckle. “It’s what the smaller ones call you, and we don’t have another name for you,” he said.

“Mum is short for mother. Mother means the person who gave birth to you.” I explained, somewhat sternly. He seemed so lovely, but he was a rat! I can’t have a rat calling me Mum!

No. Mother means nurturer, carer, helper, enabler, protector, fixer-of-all-things. You are the Mother of this house. We see you, and hear you, and feel you, from inside the wall. We respect you. We don’t come inside your house because we know that you would not like it if we damaged your things and left our droppings. Humans get quite upset about those sorts of things. We understand. We don’t like dirt either, although humans call us filthy. There is enough food outside for us, and in these boxes of papers in the garage.

My boxes of papers!!

“Actually,” he continued, “I did come inside the house once.” He seemed to be grinning cheekily at me. “Do you remember?” I nodded. I did.

It was late one night, and I was watching tv in the living room, with only one light on. I heard a noise near the door to the garage. I looked over, and there was a rat, running into the room, seemingly unconcerned that I was there. I must have moved, because the rat suddenly looked at me in surprise. It stopped, quivering. It looked momentarily confused, and I seemed to hear it thinking: “I didn’t know you were there!” I glared at it angrily, and it did a fast “about turn”, scampering back to the door, sliding on the wooden floor in its haste. It squeezed under the door, at the corner: a crack which seemed impossibly small, and in which it almost got stuck, back legs scrabbling frantically. By then I had followed it to the door. I watched in amazement. There was a draught-stopper at the bottom of the door, but it didn’t fit under the door stop, leaving the corner unblocked. I was awestruck that a rat could fit through something so small! That was when I put Ratsack on my shopping list, and stuffed that gap with an old pair of socks.

“I’d been inside the house before,” he said sheepishly. “I didn’t come again, after that,” he assured me. “I could tell that you were angry. You’re scary when you’re angry!”

Emotions swirl through me, competing for my attention, as I react to the various elements of what this rat is saying to me. Rats as intelligent, I have no problem with. Science recorded and publicised that years ago. Rats as polite, respectful and clean…that’s more of a cognitive challenge. Although, I ponder, it shouldn’t be: I’d handled live lab rats and wanted to take them home as pets.

I started to feel bad about laying the Ratsack. I’d buried 4 rats in the garden: 2 adults and 2 half-grown.

I blinked. Perhaps I should be more concerned with the fact that this rat is talking to me! And I’m talking back!

“How do you speak my language?” I asked.

“We’re talking telepathically,” he said. “We’re exchanging concepts directly, without the need for words in any language. Didn’t you realise?”

I was a little flustered by now. Had he read ALL my thoughts?

“I don’t think I did,” I said. “But I think I’ve done this with pets and babies before, without really noticing. It’s quite a shock for me to see you sitting there, and for you to start a conversation with me like this."

"Why did you start this conversation with me?”

“Well,” again that embarrassed chuckle, “Normally we wouldn’t try to communicate with humans. They mostly don’t hear us, because they’re too busy panicking and screaming. Thank you for not screaming, by the way.”

“No problem,” I said, almost absently, wanting to hear this story.

“But I need your help,” he continued. It’s really very silly of me, and I don’t know what’s wrong, but I know you can fix it. I’ve seen you give your small ones medicine and make them better, and I’ve seen you look after the fish in that tank.”

“Oh.” I said. I was quite amazed by the things that he was saying. A dark dread was creeping into the back of my mind, but realisation hadn’t yet struck.

“I can’t seem to walk, and I have these very strange feelings in my stomach. I feel so ridiculous! Quite silly! What is it, Mum? Please fix it.”

He looked at me with confident hope in his eyes, and what seemed to be a gentle, trusting smile on his face.

The dread crystallised into knowledge. He’d eaten the Ratsack and was bleeding internally. He was dying.

What could I say? How could I tell him that it was me who had caused his illness, pain and inevitable death? He trusted and respected me. Actually, it seemed that he loved me. He was asking for my help, and expecting me to give it.

I felt anguish. There is no other word for it.

It is one thing to notice chewed cardboard and rat droppings, and lay rat bait to get rid of the problem.

It is another thing altogether to meet the soul that you have targeted for destruction, and to find that apart from physical features, you are not much different!

I wanted to save him. I knew I couldn’t. I was too cowardly to tell him that it was my fault.

I somehow noticed, while thinking all these things, that he didn’t seem to be hearing my thoughts. Telepathic exchange was not mind-reading, then. It was like talking: only what I wanted to share was shared.

“Well, Mum?” he prompted, almost pleading.

I gently picked him up. I felt his joy: euphoric! He was so sure that I was saving him.

I felt dreadful. I tried to show him a calm, caring, happy self, to pretend that I was unconcerned and as confident as he. I thought of Mother Teresa, holding the hands of the dying.

“Thank you, Mum!” he said, excitedly. “I knew you’d fix this silliness!”

I carried him outside to the garden.

He deserved to know the truth. Well, most of it.

“You ate the green pellets in the boxes in the garage, didn’t you.” I said, matter-of-factly.

“Yes, I did! Thank you for giving us those treats! They are yummy! Very kind of you.” He smiled, without changing the expression of his face.

I felt worse. I closed my eyes instinctively, and took a deep breath.

“Those pellets aren’t treats. They are poison.”

“Poison! Why did you put poison where we would eat it?!” he exclaimed.

“Oh.” He had realised. He had been right about humans getting upset at chewed belongings, rat droppings and a belief that they were filthy. He had seen my love for my children, and care of my pet fish, and he hadn’t realised that it didn’t extend to unseen rats in the garage.

Then I felt his anger. “How could you do this to me!”

I hoped that he could feel my regret and guilt. He didn’t seem to. Probably like people not “hearing” rats trying to communicate with us while we are screaming and panicking, I thought.

I put him down on a thick mass of flowering creeper, behind a rock wall. He could spend his final moments on softness, amidst flowery fragrance. I wouldn’t see his body behind the wall.

He was not happy. I “felt” him curl his nose in disgust.

“How could you!” he said again. He anger was still burning.

“I had to stop the rats eating my things.” I said matter-of-factly, with a slight shrug of my shoulders.

“By killing us!” he spat. “Couldn’t you think of any other way?”

“What else could I do?” I asked him.

He was quiet. “You’re right. We wouldn’t have left.” He said softly. “We made this our home. We were happy here. We thought we were most fortunate to be with you. We thought that you were a nice human.”

Tears were welling in my eyes.

His anger was gone. He lost hope. I felt his spirit go limp. He was giving up. He took a deep, groaning breath, in pain.

“Can’t you save me?” he asked, almost accusingly.

I shook my head, but didn’t know if that translated. “No.” I said. “You are bleeding internally. You will die, and there is nothing that I can do to stop it.”

“I’m sorry,” I added, almost superfluously. What was the point of being sorry? Sorry didn’t change anything. Sorry couldn’t save him.

Guilt got the better of me. I wasn’t Mother Teresa.

Trying to be gentle, I said “So, you can lie there until you die. That’s as comfortable as I can make you. I don’t know how long it will take.”

I left. I almost ran. I didn’t say goodbye. My guilt and shame were too great. Facing these consequences was too difficult. I wouldn't use rat bait again, though.

I can still see him in my mind’s eye: sitting on his haunches in the garage, looking slightly embarrassed, as he said: “Hello, Mum!”