Herbert the Rat

It all started with rat droppings. Not little droppings but big droppings. Turds in fact. Our fears were confirmed when one morning a whole banana was eaten down to the skin. My mother and I knew we had a big one on our hands. “We're going to have to do something about this,” Mom said. But what to do? We went to a hole in the wall shop that we thought had everything but it had no rat poison. Thinking in our Western way, we then thought we needed a hardware shop. But there are none. We tried an electrical store. Not to electrocute Herbert but thinking the shop might have rat poison. Are you ready for this? We were told to go to a pharmacy. Really? A pharmacy? For rat poison? Yes. So off we marched to a pharmacy- an open fronted store, lined up with people. One English woman was buying either a ten year supply of Viagra or maybe she was taking it home to all her friends. Some people, (should have been us) were buying pills for constipation. (We never thought that we would wish for diarrhea like we do now.) Finally our turn came. My mother stepped up proudly and said, “ We need rat poison.” Without a sideways glance, the chemist rummaged around in a drawer and brought out a box of rat poison the size of a half pound of butter. On the cover, it advertised that one feeding kills. (It makes one feel mean but what to do?)

Needless to say, my mother didn't read the instructions and put out half the cake of poison the first night. We thought, this will do it. This will definitely do it. To be sure it would work, she put the poison in the fruit bowl. We didn't want to confuse the rat. We came into the kitchen the next morning and the whole piece had been carried away, leaving just a turd or two to tell us that he had been there. We thought, great, that has really done the trick. I imagined Herbert lying belly up somewhere, with all fours pointing heavenward. Little did we know. We went to sleep that night feeling secure. We even left out a bowl of fruit. But alas, the next morning, half a mango was gone. Oh my god, we didn't get Herbert yet. Back to the drawing board. My mother picked up the box of rat poison and this time read the instructions- only to discover that there are twenty squares in the box and only one square needed to be put out. Man, that is some rat.

Half the box was gone already, she had given ten squares on the first night. So we tried again. Carefully put the fruit bowl on the floor and placed five squares in the bowl for good measure. Slept on edge, listening. In the morning, same deal. No poison remained. Two to three turd offering left in return. And then, shockingly my mother yelled, “Chris, there are turds in my bed.” I replied, “that's because you have a double bed. I only have a single bed. There is no room for Herbert in my bed.” After much discussion on the subject, we decided that the turds most probably got there off her feet. Yuck.

Now before this story goes any further, I want you to know that we are not talking about a mouse. These turds are one inch long. The reason that we know it is a rat is because one night I saw something big and furry scramble out the door. Can you imagine how you'd feel like with that in your bed? Not to mention that Herbert sometimes comes in during the day when we had gone out, despite the fact that we close all the doors and windows and remember, our flat is three floors up. Mom and I have discussed at length whether Herbert is having a party with his roommates. Maybe he is sending his cousins? Or are we entertaining one individual guest? Going into the kitchen in the middle of the night is daunting. And we are now on our third package of poison. Mom says that if he doesn't leave soon, we are going to raise his rent. The saga continues.