Rat Hunting

I’ve discovered the downside of living in tranquil countryside surrounded by scenic, historic stone walls. They come with four legs, long tails and I find them rather disgusting.

I realise cats present their prey to their beloved like a trophy but the night Trixie dropped a mouse on my bed I was not impressed. Luckily that one was already dead.

The next time she sprang through the cat door and dropped a live rat at my feet I reacted like Scooby Doo chancing upon a ghost.

It was high-drama in our house as it took off under the coach where I had leapt and the twins, oblivious but sensing excitement, decided to climb aboard too laughing hysterically at my spaz-attack.

Having witnessed its frantic scurry, Cade knew what was going on but it hadn’t occurred to him to be fearful.

“Cade, open the ranchsliders,” I ordered amongst shrieking at Trixie. He obeyed and fetched a stick which he prodded under the coach while I cowered on top, knowing full well rodents can climb.

Half an hour later there was still no sign of the rat, which, I might add, had the longest tail in the world, and, infuriatingly, Trixie, having lost interest, had walked off.

Finally I resorted to asking Cade to fetch the phone.

“Um, I don’t suppose you’re working in the area?” I feebly asked hubby.

“No, I’m at Waipu, why?”

Damn.

After being told to harden up, I tentatively stepped off the coach and slowly pulled it away from the wall, only to discover nothing but a few crusts in amongst an astonishing amount of dust.

That meant it was in the mammoth pile of children’s books toppling over next to the couch in the corner.

After requesting the kids pick them out one-by-one it was finally unearthed and darted for the other couch.

Defeated and exhausted, I went and cooked dinner (standing on a stool) and left it for hubby to sort later.

The latest rodent drama occurred after I had retired for the day. Hubby was watching rugby in the lounge when the cat ran into my wardrobe. Scuffling noises within confirmed my worst fears.

“Did you check Trixie’s mouth before you let her in?” I yelled.

He appeared, looking sheepish and began lifting things in the wardrobe while I sat up like Jackie watching.

Several attempts at placing the cat in front of the about-to-be removed object were fruitless. Muttering something that sounded like “Stupid cat” he disappeared back up the hall.

Ten minutes later I was still watching the doorway to the wardrobe like a hawk when I realised he wasn’t coming back.

Gingerly I stepped out of bed and found him back on the couch watching rugby.

After pointing out I was not the one who let the cat in he eventually prised himself back off the couch.

“So much for my knight in shining armour,” I huffed as I stalked (tentatively) back to my throne.

Another 15 minutes later the mouse finally ran into our other cat Jesse’s mouth. He was stoked with his first catch and was promptly ushered outside with his prize.

Having been ‘broken in’ to the world of rodents Jesse was now on a roll and my wardrobe was the place to dump them, according to the cats’ new-found fascination with it.

I knew something was in there and after avoiding setting foot in it for a week, walked down the hall one morning and narrowly avoided stepping on a dead mouse matching the carpet. It seems it had finally made a dash for it and been defeated.

I suppose these rodents resided in the stone walls long before we came along and put a house in their midst so I will have to learn to live with them – I’ll just be wearing shoes inside from now on.