The Plea

Yet again, I hear the pitter-patter of little feet and irritation ripples through my being. “Go away! Leave me alone!”

It has been a continuing struggle, punctuating the ten years since I arrived. Initially, it was enthralling to observe the wildlife that, for many months, had enjoyed exclusive occupation of the ten bush acres while the house was empty. Species of birds and animals that I had never before encountered revealed themselves on an almost daily basis. It was if I’d moved to a foreign land.

Not long into my occupancy, I was setting out one morning for a walk with my dog, when she abruptly propped and fixed her gaze on a bushy section of the garden. Investigation revealed a cute little creature, sitting on its haunches, and evidently very unwell. A box and soft towel were hastily procured, and the quivering creature gently wrapped. I felt grateful for the recent gift from a friend: a book detailing the state’s unique fauna. Turning the pages, I compared photographs and vital statistics of numerous small marsupials with what I could see of my swaddled patient, and came to the conclusion that it was most likely a dunnart.

The wildlife carer sounded doubtful on the phone, saying it would be unusual for this area, but nevertheless urged me to bring it in. Prepared for a mercy dash, I returned to the box and was crushed to see that the poor little mite had expired. Still curious about its species, I unwrapped it and consulted the book again. It matched none of the marsupials; it was a rat. Not only was it a rat, but it was a rat that I’d likely poisoned with the baits that I’d put around, after seeing evidence of rodents.

Having witnessed firsthand the death of an animal due to poisoning, I vowed not to use baits again. Neither would I use conventional traps, having heard harrowing tales of rats screaming after non-lethal encounters with them. A search for a more humane solution yielded an ‘electronic rat-killer’ which promised a quick and efficient death, via a battery-powered electric shock. A couple of days later, and voila! The first victim, and as it turned out, the last.

I swear that rats have a community newsletter, or at the very least, community meetings in which they discuss the most recent gadgets employed by their human hosts to eradicate them, and pose strategies to avoid or disable said devices. In the case of the electronic killer, no other explanation seems plausible. I would steel myself when I saw the red ‘catch light’ glowing, but the chamber of the device would be empty, and the bait gone. I conducted experiments to test its efficacy, rolling pieces of fruit into the chamber and trying to gauge if any electric shock was being delivered. The experiments were inconclusive, however, and the killing machine was consigned to the shed.

In between strategic plans, there seemed to be rodent-free periods of time, during which I would fondly imagine that they had passed a resolution at their meeting to leave me alone. I would examine my conscience: the inherent conflict between being a self-declared animal lover, and my ongoing efforts to murder a particular species. They were invading my territory, and posing a health risk, I reasoned. What’s more, they were an introduced species, and as such, didn’t rate the same consideration as did native animals. And they were parasites; freeloaders! Why couldn’t they be like every other species out there and find their own food and lodging, for goodness’ sake? Have they no shame? Self-respect?

During one such pest-free period, I noticed the disappearance of a number of items from the kitchen. Firstly, an egg slide, followed by an oven glove, and then yet another egg slide. When vacuuming one day, I pulled out a couch to find my missing items, along with a lemon wedge, a plastic bottle top and an empty yoghurt container, all liberally covered in rat excrement. Evidently, while I had been comfortably ensconced on one couch watching TV, rattie had been down behind the other, partying on.

Outraged, I again consulted the Internet. Rats hate the smell of eucalyptus, it reported. Accordingly, armed with a large bottle of eucalyptus oil and a bag of cotton wool balls, I planted eucalyptus bombs in every place imaginable around the house. Ensuring that there was not a scrap of food left lying around to entice them, I fled the pungent house to spend the night at a friend’s place. Upon returning the following day, I found the corner of the plastic compost container substantially gnawed, as was the lid of the eucalyptus bottle. I felt I had been flipped the rodent equivalent of the bird.

A peaceful interlude ensued. I felt sure that rattie had reported to his comrades that I was a kill-joy, and that they had moved on for fun and games elsewhere. Until I bought a new car. Although I could hardly be described as affluent, or even financially comfortable, I had decided that a brand new car was a sensible investment, and would possibly see me out to the end of my driving days. Heading out one day, I was not a great distance from home when the dashboard lit up like brothel central. I did not venture to look under the hood, knowing the inscrutable computerisation of what was underneath, and so rang immediately for roadside service.

When, eventually, assistance arrived, I peered from the driver’s seat to see my burly saviour lift a substantial lump of dried vegetation from my engine. “You’ve got rat problems, love” he advised through the side window. Indeed, I did. The entire engine was covered in various nesting materials, excrement and empty snail shells. It appeared the little darlings were cooking up escargot (or, as a witty friend noted, es car not go) on the warm engine. When they weren’t dining à la française, they were entertaining themselves by gnawing through the electrical wires. Fabulous. A couple of thousand dollars later, the protective engine cover was removed, and the hood was henceforth propped open when the car was parked in an effort to spoil the cosy ambience.

Following this incident, I came across a fellow who made cage traps and bought one from him. “Don’t drown them,” he said, “it’s cruel”. No problem. My neighbour owned an air gun and was an excellent shot. She had offered to dispatch any beasties of the rodent variety that I caught. Accordingly, when I found a young rat crouched in the corner of the small cage one morning, I carried it next door. Although it was less than a hundred metres' walk, it was a decidedly distressing one, feeling it running panicked as I escorted it to its doom. Subsequent to that, I caught another one, but my neighbour was away. What to do? I took it for a drive. Several kilometres away to a nice field with available water and, I reasoned, remote from any other houses. I just hoped it wasn’t a homing rat.

Another peaceful time seemed to ensue, during which I was attending evening rehearsals for a play. On a couple of occasions, driving through the densely wooded area bordering my home, I had been surprised by the appearance of an owl gliding across the road in front of me. Around the same time, I had been checking the water tank in the open space beneath the deck when I turned to see an owl (the owl?), perched on one of the joists. It was daytime, so I could see it quite clearly as it turned its head toward me. Its pale face and dark eyes, framed by a heart of darker feathers, regarded me calmly. It seemed unperturbed by my presence. The penny dropped. Are you the one responsible for the lull in the battle? Then you are very, very welcome. It was perfect; a natural solution to the problem, and a win-win scenario. Well, except for the rats.

The owl proved to be more effective than anything else. Months passed without me bellowing expletives at the ceilings and walls, or trying to disguise the stench of the odd rat which chose to end its days in a wall cavity. Sitting in the living room one day, my pianola started to tinkle… on its own. Quickly dismissing any possibility that it was haunted, I came to the obvious conclusion: they were back. Furious, I pounded on the keyboard, but it/they sat tight. Right. I would smoke them out. Having constructed a corridor of obstacles leading from the pianola to an open door, I placed several sticks of burning incense in the cavity housing the pedals and watched. Nothing. Apparently, they were Zen rats.

I’m unsure of whether the rats exited prior to, or during, the dismantling of the pianola, but when it was reduced to an almost skeletal form, only the evidence remained: droppings throughout the elaborate mechanism, and all the rubber tubing destroyed. So this much-loved and expensive piece of furniture that I’d lugged around the country (along with dozens of rolls), was now just that: a piece of furniture. A pianola tuner and repairer estimated the damage to be around six thousand dollars. Any squeamishness or compassion I may have had for the beasts evaporated; I felt I could kill them with my bare hands.

The owl was nowhere to be found, so I headed once again to the hardware warehouse and regaled an unsuspecting assistant with my tale of woe. On his advice, and at some expense, I purchased numerous plug-in, ultrasonic rodent repellents and distributed them throughout the house. To date, these have proved to be reasonably effective, with the exception of a couple of invaders, apparently afflicted with hearing impairment, seemingly oblivious as they were to what was touted to be an unbearable pitch. The ultrasonic waves, however, do not penetrate surfaces like walls or ceilings, hence the pitter-patter of tiny feet, and the unmistakable sounds of gnawing.

And so my plea is to Gaea, or the Rainbow Serpent, or any force of nature that can bring back my dear owl; or ideally, a parliament of them.

Gods, hear my prayer.