rats

It was back at the end of September when this story took place – during the last mowing of the season.

What is it about the word “rat” that makes me want to include the terms flea-bitten and filthy in the definition? It’s possibly because these rodents usually are part and parcel of both those conditions. You might get the idea that I don’t like rats and you would be exactly right in that assumption. I do not excessively fear them, any more than I would any other animal that can bite one’s finger to the bone.

It’s not that I totally object to them living on the planet, I just don’t want them living in close proximity to me. The problem is that if one has an unkempt area nearby, one does not have to invite these outdoor rodents, they just move into this small jungle on their own. Part of my yard – down the hill – doesn’t get mowed very often and it was an open invitation to anything needing shelter.

The time came for the mowing of the rough areas of my yard and I tried to remember if this exercise took place on an annual or semi-annual basis. Or was it biennial? Was this effort at remembering a stalling tactic? As I knew it would be, it turned into a slow and arduous task, with the tall grass and weeds threatening to choke the mower every moment. The spot was mowed in a counter clockwise direction so as to discharge the cut material away from the uncut and to help in keeping the mower relatively unclogged.

Starting on the outside of this somewhat square circle, the uncut growth in the center slowly got smaller and smaller. Suddenly a brown furry entity made a bounding get-away across the already cut strip of ground. It was fairly large for what it was, almost the size of a small squirrel but it got away so quickly that I didn’t have time to interview it to see how its life had been that year or to even to get its name.

It definitely was a field rat and I started noticing that as the overgrowth was cut away, it revealed many well-worn paths under the multitudinous plant growths. It almost seemed like a rat city – or maybe a small village – in which these critters could live safe and out of sight. One spot was lined with grass straw, identifying it as possibly their main residence. None of these things were evident until the grass, etc. was cut down.

This under-plant village must have had a storage area for food items kept for a midnight snack, but I never found a tiny TV or remote – must have been female rats. There was a fairly large bare area uncovered by the mowing that I was somewhat puzzled about. After consideration, my conclusion was that it had to be a dance floor. It was smooth and compacted with no roots or anything on which to stub their little paws as they were boogieing to all hours of the night.

The area of uncut plant material in the center of the square circle got smaller with each round and suddenly I saw another rat make a run for a hiding place elsewhere. It wasn’t having much success at this and kept ducking under the mat of cut grass. It was more than I could stand and I put my self-propelled walk-behind mower in top speed and went after the rat. Just as I would reach the small furry, it would bound away again to another semi-hiding place.

Finally it made a run all the way across the mowed area to a stand of trees. The mower and I reached this place of sanctuary just a foot or two behind it but it had escaped the sudden death playoff with the blades of the noisy machine. At least the rat and I got to have a little excitement in our lives, something the rat can squeak to its grand-rats about for months to come.

No matter how big a rat a person might be, they still have an appointment some day with another type mower – or should I say reaper. And after this they will be judged for all their deeds, ratty and otherwise. ec