“RAT.”

I sat on Elsie’s sofa drinking tea, munching my cookie politely and noticing the dust on her dresser. It was passed 10pm. If I had known the full import of what she was telling me I might not have felt comfortable. Elsie is ninety-one and very able minded but I still had doubts she had seen a mouse in her sixth floor suite.

“Are you quite sure?” I asked.

“Well, I think it was a mouse dear. I only caught sight of its tail you know, disappearing under the dresser.”

There had been no other sightings or even the slightest suspicion of a rodent on the rampage through seniors’ bags of birdseed. I was a little surprised Elsie had any seed. Apparently she took it with her to feed the ducks in the park.

“I’d better take a look,” I said, and duly ferreted about besides her bed where, inexplicably Elsie kept the plastic bag of now depleted seed. Sure enough it had been nibbled. Millet and corn were suspiciously scattered about. But there was worse! Mingled with the grain were unmistakable droppings of the rodent kind. By my reckoning it was either a very constipated mouse or my greatest nightmare. I recoiled in horror at the prospect of a rat.

“Well?” Elsie enquired, as I emerged from beneath her bed. ‘Did you find anything?”

“You could be right”.

I tried to sound casual.

“But I’m not certain there is a mouse” I said duplicitously.

“Just in case I’ll get some bait”.

I hurried out of Elsie’s suite already feeling contaminated and with panic buttons starting to go off. The prospect of a rat invasion was too much for me, let alone my thirty tenants. I went straight to the washroom and lathered off all manner of imagined germs.

I regard myself as a die-hard animal lover who wouldn’t harm a fly. I carefully hand-cup housebound moths for release, and relocate conspicuous spiders. Various critters, seemingly doomed by some misfortune, usually at the hands of man, have received a reprieve, care of yours truly. But I have serious issues with rats. Basically, I can’t stand them. As a child they dragged my baby rabbits, still naked and helpless from their hutches into the rodent underworld, never to be seen again. Rats invaded our hen coups and contaminated the grain stores. They scurried about in the shed roof and worst, sometimes they let me see them. As though instinctively, I was and indeed still am, repulsed by their appearance. I find their tails especially abhorrent. My childhood fears of rat attacks are undiminished. The prospect of one landing on my shoulder remains my greatest nightmare. Once, years ago at a county show I forced myself in to the rodent pet tent and allowed enthusiastic rat owners to share the delights of their maligned pets. It was hardly a conversion experience. I stood, petrified as a multicoloured rat settled itself into the sweaty palms of my hands. It’s tail dropped suddenly over my wrist, which had me almost screaming for assistance. I didn’t think Elsie would relish one crawling about her bed either and decided it would be better to keep our rodent problem under wraps.

Descending in the elevator I was subconsciously listening for scratching movement from our new resident. I hoped it was a die-hard bachelor, not given to publicity stunts and with an adventurous appetite for unfamiliar food. I would temp his taste buds ASAP, no expense spared, as soon as I could return from the hardware store. I went there first thing next morning. Young, handsome Brian greeted me with his usual smile, asking what he could do for me. He always does and I have tried to break the habit of my fantasy response.

“Rat bait “ I said, a little too loudly, suddenly remembering a tenant might just be shopping further down the isle.

“Sorry. We’re fresh out.”

“What about a trap?” I asked.

“Had a run on those too. Should be getting new stock in a week.”

“A week!” My mind ran amok over the potential birthrate of rats.

“I could sell you one of these if it helps.”

Brian was pointing to an ultrasound device, which the manufacturers imply deter rats and mice from viewing your living space as desirable rodent realty.

“I’ll take it.” I said, and selfishly visualised just where in my apartment I might best locate it.

I phoned the office. Janice answered sweetly asking how I was doing.

“May have a slight problem.” I said. “The four-legged sort.”

“You don’t mean Mr. Martin crawling about drunk in the lounge again?”

“No. It is hairy though, but has a horrid tale and is smallish, well, rat size in fact. It has taken up residence somewhere on the sixth floor of all places.”

“Oh my God! You’re not serious?”

“I wish!”

Janice duly arrived with nice one-inch food cubes especially designed to please the palate of our rodent. I placed them surreptitiously in Elsie’s suite and threw them like dice around its newest territory, the adjacent vacant suite. I salved my conscience for the impending murder I hoped to commit, chanting a mantra list of all the unwholesome diseases our uninvited visitor might subject us to. A week passed and with it every trace of poison. Each night the rat left fresh droppings as tokens of its appreciation. The new tenant was due in a few days. She didn’t strike me as the rat resilient sort. I was worried one first night sighting would have her screaming down the sixth floor corridor, hair curlers flying, alerting everyone to the problem. I phoned Janice.

“Listen, about that bait. You’re quite sure it wasn’t missing a vital ingredient?”

“Absolutely lethal! Assuming he’s eating it of course.”

“Um. I think this one is saving up for Vancouver’s next earthquake.”

I went back to Brian for another fantasy fix and several spring traps.

“Trust me. These will fix the little fucker.”

“And if not?” I asked sceptically.

“I’ll personally come round with a shovel and ambush it.”

A few naughty thoughts flashed through my mind before reality kicked in.

I got my break late Sunday night. The Russian couple’s daughter had called to check on her parent’s apartment while they visited the homeland. It too was on the sixth floor. She had not found it vacant nor the $30.00 box of chocolates she had previously left on their dining table. No wonder the rat wasn’t dying. He was feasting on Belgian chocolate. Tell tale signs were liberally left all over the sofa, the window ledge and not least, the dining table. My stomach turned. I reached for a second pair of sanitary gloves. Gingerly I set and placed the traps with lashings of peanut butter. The suite was like a mind field by the time I left. I was way past worrying about my conscience and locked the door behind me, putting my trust in Brian’s traps.

Next morning I checked out the Russian suite, carefully opening the door with a small shovel in one hand to fight off any kamikaze rat attack. There was silence, of the deathly sort I hoped. A faint hint of peanut butter lingered about the room. The first line of traps was in tact. I approached the stove. I had pulled it out in to the kitchen and laid a trap within inches of a very rat friendly hole in the wall. A rodent tail came in to view, then the victim’s body, clenched in the vice of death. I doubt it got even a lick of peanut butter. Quick! Painless! Its little black eyes bulged slightly but not accusingly, I hoped. Brian was my hero and Elsie need never know.

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