True tales of transformation, #1
The rat’s tail was spectacularly horrible. It was hard to believe it was real; the tip of the tail looked like cheap black plastic wire circled into indented rings, something nasty from the dollar store. However, as the tail got closer to the body, it became fatter with the rings changing to reptilian cross-hatched scales. That was all I could see, the tail sticking out of the trap. Time for me to step up, be strong and empty it. Oh bleh. This is what husbands were invented for, part of me was bleating. A large part.
You’re the only game in town now, I told myself. At a certain point after a spouse dies, the light goes on that if certain things are going to get dealt with, tough love has to be invoked. I could handle this. This rat was fresh. I’d take it down to the woods and leave it for an owl or a raven to snack on. Easy, right? The eco-friendly way to handle it.
Wearing gloves, I picked up the Ratticator trap with the loathsome tail sticking out. The trap was a black plastic rectangle with rounded corners, twelve inches long and four inches high with a top, a bottom, a front end with a grill, and an opening at the back to let a rodent in. Once the rat was in, the creature was electrocuted. It was a quick death with no poison. The Ratticator was also heavy enough that, unlike a snap trap, an owl wasn’t going to grab the rat attached to it and fly away with both. This has happened to me.
Mid-morning sun streamed through the big firs all around. My house is in a sunny clearing. A cool September, too dry, the forest needed rain. But it felt glorious to be outside while I could, knowing the dark days of winter were coming.
Hmm. If I dumped the carcass too close, Kira might get excited and start trying to dig under the fence. I walked through the back gate, latching it carefully behind me, and down the slope toward the park my property backs onto. There was a good open spot by the sword ferns where a cedar had blown down in a storm two years before. I’d had it cut up for firewood. My big gold dog watched me through the mesh of the deer fence. She had her head down and looked worried; she was picking up on my being upset.
No way was I going to touch the rat, even with gloves, so I swung the open end of the trap over the slope and tipped it down. My idea was the rat would slide out but it was heavy enough it didn’t move. I gave the trap a little flip.
The rat, which was substantial, fell to the ground. Unfortunately, the door to the trap’s battery slot opened as well. The six-inch silver door went flying and then three out of the four brand-new “D” batteries tumbled after it. I had to clamber down and around a big pile of dead branches to avoid the rat and pick up the parts to my trap.
I wasn’t going to tell my granddaughter this story. She has a toy rat, a soft stuffed creature she loved. It had always given me the heebie-jeebies.
I walked back up through the gate and told Kira everything was under control. To my surprise, I realized it was, actually. I’d done exactly what I’d set out to do.
This was my second rat. The first hardly counted as I hadn’t known it was there. I had seen the trap’s red light was flashing; I’d checked inside twice and there was nothing. These electric traps are very sensitive to moisture, so I’d thought maybe the humidity was high and that had set it off. I’d put the trap into the category of I’ll deal with this annoying thing later, and left it. How long had I ignored the winking red light at the back of the carport? A month? Two?
I’d finally got around to saying, Okay, I’ll put new batteries in the trap, they must be defective.
When I’d picked up the Ratticator, I realized there was something inside. I’d seen pathetic little claws and thought I’d caught a bird. Oh no! I’d been busy apologizing to the reeky dead thing as I dumped it into the garbage can. It hadn’t been until I’d seen the tail I’d realized the flat body was not a bird but a rat, one so old it had mummified and its fur dried into the tufts I’d mistaken for feathers. The skull, which had been last to emerge, made the identification certain. I’d removed the batteries from the trap and taken it into the vegetable garden to hose out. Even in the open carport, how had I missed the stink?
That had been my first rat.
I re-baited the trap and took it back to the carport, positioning the opening to the trap so it was very close to the back wall. A rat could get through that small space but not a bird or my dog’s nose. I turned the switch on; the green light flashed once and went out showing me the trap was active. It had taken some positioning and re-positioning of batteries to understand what was on and what was off.
The lazy sunshine was warming now. I plunked myself down on the front steps in a patch of sun. Kira came to lean against me. I scratched her ears and thought about making a celebratory cup of tea. I felt I’d been through a rite of passage. Something small and magical. There was the before-woman who couldn’t, didn’t want to deal with rats. Living alone had transformed me into a woman who, however reluctantly, would and did.
What transformation are you grappling with right now? Large or small?
And just to lighten this slightly dark tale, here’s a smile for you—