SOMETHING STRANGE IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD?

I phoned the Intrepids. My Dad’s got rats in the garden too, plus quite a surprising belief that rats don’t like garlic.

“Any strong smells apparently,” said my Mum, casually, as though it were common knowledge.

“How’s it going then?” I asked on the other end of the phone.

“Hang on,” she said, and then relaying, “How’s it going?” into their living room. A faint voice in the background chimed, “Not too well.”

“Not too well,” she boomed back into the receiver.

Apparently the rats took no notice of the garlic on the compost heap and my Dad has moved onto Zoflora, a disinfectant, which we urged them not to try if they were still using the compost to fertilise any vegetables.

Ratbusters (not their real name) are coming out tomorrow then. I don’t much like the idea of paying them to bring death into our garden, but there might not be another way. Sammy, meanwhile, has no qualms about it - chillingly, not a flicker of a doubt. The very sight of old rattus rattus, sneaking across the fence sends her into primordial concern and steel-eyed resolution. Peace of mind, for her, is worth the cost. 

I hope the Ratbusters turn up like I imagine - in a long Cadillac with blue-flashing lights and ectoplasm cages strapped to their backs.

“Step aside, sir, we’ve got this,” says the tall one with glasses.

“Just don’t blow up the shed,” I reply, with about 12% of my brain really really wanting them to cross the streams and blow up the shed while I watch excitedly from an upstairs window.

Anyway. I don’t know what the Intrepids will do if the Zoflora doesn’t work out. My Dad won’t fork out for the Ratbusters. To be honest, I’m not sure I like the thought of it either, but hey, who you gonna call?