Celia Dishes...The Rat Whisperer is On the Job!
The “rat whisperer,” as he had been jovially described to me by his co-worker at the pest control company, had been summoned. He was admirably punctual, wearing starched khakis and a logo Polo shirt, the very picture of professionalism. His assignment: identify a curious, er, dropping I had found on my kitchen counter and fearfully placed in a baggie.
“Here it is,” I said, holding the baggie as if it contained, well, rat droppings. Head turned to the side, full arm extension. “I’m so sorry.”
The rat whisperer accepted my strange offering like it was a fine bauble, examining it thoroughly before looking up.
“Definitely a rat,” he said in plus or minus one second.
I swayed a bit. “No, no,” I said. “Let’s take another look. Perhaps a tiny mouse? A waterbug? You know they can get quite large.”
“Nope, it’s definitely a rat. Rats have no control over their sphincters so you may find this stuff anywhere. It’s encouraging this is all you found.”
Clearly his idea of “encouraging” didn’t match mine. Also, the more he talked I was worried about my own sphincter capabilities. Critters inside when they should be outside makes me significantly woozy.
“B-b-b-ut I have CATS!”
The rat whisperer looked briefly at Joey and Chandler, weighing in at 20 pounds each of mean, lean, fighting machine...oh, who am I kidding? He saw right through their dull, disinterested stares.
“Yeah. Well, anyway…”
J&C looked at him with what approximated hurt feelings, I thought. And then immediately went to sleep at his feet.
Sensing my fear, the rat whisperer sought to console me, the embarrassingly hysterical housewife.
“You know,” he said softly, “When you live in this part of the world, it’s really not a question of IF you have a rat; it’s a question of when.”
What part of the world was he referring to? The abyss into Hell?
Wait. Hold on. He said, “a rat.” Like just one random rat who had accidentally wandered through a plaster wall and into my kitchen for a look-see. Maybe this wasn’t so bad after all.
“What’s this!” he said, crouching with a flashlight that revealed… some mighty sloppy housekeeping.
“Oh, I spilled an entire container of black peppercorns the other night. Thought I got ‘em all…”
He picked up three peppercorns and gently placed them on a white paper towel. “See? These look exactly like squirrel poop because it’s completely round…”
Stoptalkingstoptalkingstoptalking.
As the rat whisperer, an extremely knowledgeable and helpful fellow, scoured attic and basement and exterior, I fretted.
A rat? In my home? I was nauseous.
As if he was reading my mind, the rat whisperer hastened to put my mind at ease. Kidding!
“It’s highly unusual to just have one. There are usually many more where that one came from.”
OK, off you go, then.
“No!” I said, holding up my hand. “Did you ever consider he’s just a bachelor rat? A bit of an introvert with no friends?” Yes. I actually said that.
“A bachelor rat? That’s funny! But seriously, there are usually lots more around, like a colony. They’re actually fairly social creatures if you think about it.”
Which now I must. Rat tea parties somewhere in my 100-year-old walls. Pinkies up!
I should tell you this young man is very, very good at his job. When I confessed I had heard a “scritch scratch” in the wall the day before the, er, present was left on the counter, he nodded empathetically.
“Yeah. Fun fact: a rat’s teeth actually never stop growing so they just chew through walls and wiring and their teeth just keep getting sharper and longer as needed…Hey, you OK? You look a little pale. Do you want some water?”
Stoptalkingstoptalkingstoptalking.
“They’re also intelligent. Many elude traps just by outsmarting us humans!”
Have you ever noticed how people always say such-and-such animal is highly intelligent? To hear people tell it, pigs can practically join Mensa with their big porcine brains. But rats? I dunno. I’d rather not think of them wearing their little adjustable headlamps from Amazon in my basement, poring over blueprints for the best way in.
After a few hours, the rat whisperer returned with the results of his very thorough inspection. It was good news! The point of entry was a rotted crawlspace entry which could be easily repaired.
Whew. I guess we can postpone the whole selling the house thing. For now.
Waaay back in the mid-twentieth century, the house next to the railroad track that I grew up in got an infestation of wharf rats. I mean, these boys were big enough to carry your cats off into the woods and beat the crap out of them. My sweet mumsy thought it was a good idea to buy rat traps, but when she actually caught one, she left it up to eight-year-old me to drag it--trap and all--into the woods and leave it there. I think she finally called a rat whisperer. Remind me to tell you about the copperhead infestation in a rental house we lived in during my park ranger days. Or not. I'll stop talking now.
This Wilmington newbie still has much to learn, seems. To cockroaches (yep, you folk down this way have a euphemism that goes something like, 'palmetto bug,' I know, but c'mon), add rats. Who can't control their sphincters. What I love most, though, is the khakis and polo—that right there is class through and through. One expects no less of a rat whisperer! Love your writing, Celia!