“That… is a big… fat… rat,” said Sammy matter-of-factly. She was staring at the garden. I followed her gaze.
Clinging to the bird feeder on the back fence, was an enormous, grey mound of rattus rattus, complete with a long black tail. It was nibbling and balancing there, like a hungry trapeze artist, delicately gripping the wood with its tiny feet.
I watched it twitch in the morning sunlight. Little snouty nose. Tiny beady eyes. Then it scrabbled up the feeder, darted along the top of the fence, down a branch, and disappeared into the corner of the garden, its tail snaking after it.
It will be back, I thought.
“Could we block the hole in the corner?” I wondered out loud. Sammy reminded me that this was futile; these little blighters are resourceful. And this particular fatso seemed cunning enough to shimmy his bulk up a vertical fence. She was of the opinion that rat traps were the thing, and all the sooner, before he brings along his friends and relations for a bit more of the bird-food banquet.
Execution then. I don’t like it. It hadn’t helped that I’d also been listening to a series about the Tudors.
The Internet gives a bit of a feeble nod towards peppermint, of all things, as a deterrent. Apparently, the scent of peppermint drives away old rattus, giving off a pheromone that’s as unpleasant to him as rotting eggs or a forgotten public loo. But the Internet would also like to remind me that (ahem) “poison, poison them all” is really the only surefire strategy.
I think we can start by moving the bird feeder before we call in Ratbusters.
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