at least the mt waddington rat had the good sense to know that he was not a housepet. he confined his sordid activities to the garage and the interior of the walls. our first canadian rat (my father chased down, trapped, and exterminated no few vermin while we lived in the states, a skill which stood him in good stead this morning) has been cavorting in my parents' bedroom, spotted in the hall, and was recently flushed out...
caught...
and imprisoned...
in the living room. it's been 15 years since we lived south of the border, and at least that long since my father has made a practice of killing rats and mice by throwing them into coffee tins (the big round maxwell house ones) and letting them suffocate, the most humane death that my ruthless, soft-hearted daddy could sentence them to. he will tell you stories of the time he tried to flush one and it wouldn't go down so he had to hold it under by it's tail, and watch it frantically swim upwards, terror growing in his little mousy eyes until it finally expired. then there was the time he was holding one tightly in his rat-catching-glove-encased hand, calling for my mother to bring a coffee tin. terrified that it would escape, he clutched it a little too tightly, so that by the time the tin was brought, the rat was tossed lifelessly in. so here we are, with this rat and no coffee tin in sight. so what does a sophisticated, city family do with their unwanted houseguest? we discussed poison (of which we had none), drowning (unthinkable in light of previous experiences, and the rephrehensibility of a water-logged rat-corpse which would have to be disposed of eventually), torching, smashing, throwing down from the roof, all of which had their own drawbacks. in an effort to buy time, my father hit the rat over the head with a stick to subdue it...
and the rather obliging beast was subdued unto death. may you rest in peace, you invasive little bastard.
caught...
in the living room. it's been 15 years since we lived south of the border, and at least that long since my father has made a practice of killing rats and mice by throwing them into coffee tins (the big round maxwell house ones) and letting them suffocate, the most humane death that my ruthless, soft-hearted daddy could sentence them to. he will tell you stories of the time he tried to flush one and it wouldn't go down so he had to hold it under by it's tail, and watch it frantically swim upwards, terror growing in his little mousy eyes until it finally expired. then there was the time he was holding one tightly in his rat-catching-glove-encased hand, calling for my mother to bring a coffee tin. terrified that it would escape, he clutched it a little too tightly, so that by the time the tin was brought, the rat was tossed lifelessly in. so here we are, with this rat and no coffee tin in sight. so what does a sophisticated, city family do with their unwanted houseguest? we discussed poison (of which we had none), drowning (unthinkable in light of previous experiences, and the rephrehensibility of a water-logged rat-corpse which would have to be disposed of eventually), torching, smashing, throwing down from the roof, all of which had their own drawbacks. in an effort to buy time, my father hit the rat over the head with a stick to subdue it...
and the rather obliging beast was subdued unto death. may you rest in peace, you invasive little bastard.
1 comment:
The last time that I moved back in with my parents (who live on 25 acres in Surrey) a mouse/rat/opposum ran across my foot while I was blogging.
My dad, who does not have rat-catching-gloves, put tiny poison pellets all over the house.
We didn't know they were dead til their carcasses gave off a rancid-meat odor.
Then it was a game of hide n seek to find the bodies.
Fun times.
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