The basic choice in our jungle village is this: do you want to live with live rats or bloody bits of dead rats?  It’s not every day, let’s be clear.  This is not a horror movie.  It’s just a shabby jungle hut, and choices are choices, however limited.  Here, it appears, there are no ratless situations. There is only the matter of choosing which way to consort with rats, dead or alive.

My fatal error this week

I was blind to a long green bean that fell behind a shelf.  This area now has a half chewed bean and rodent droppings.  When I came home that night, I flipped on the kitchen light and saw a rat scurry away from what turned out to be Bean Corner.  I put out poison for the next two nights, but it did not disappear.

Day 3

My neighbour brought in her cat, a famously enthusiastic hunter.  He was very interested in everything, and quite serious about sniffing out the whole place impressively systematically. Nothing. Not a bean nib.

“Maybe it crawled under the fridge,” I offered, “I’ve seen them do that”.

She smiled knowingly.  “He’d know. He’d be right there.  He’d wait for three hours, but he’d get it. And eat it. Well, most of it, anyway.”

What about the rest?  This cat is also systematic about his gore-gifts, and always deposits them nearby the toilet.  So that little problem is easily hosed away.

Day 4

The poison put out last night is gone.  Those far more experienced tell me there exist rats these days smart enough to not eat the stuff.  Also, in theory, some rats ate a bit and survived somehow, absorbed this data or chemistry into their very DNA, enabling their offspring to either inherit the knowledge to not eat the stuff, or gain some kind of immunity to the poison which they can now enjoy like candy. I really don’t know.  But, if this neighbour ever moves away I may relent and take her cat. This is something I swore I’d never do.

Always hire a high class thug

I’ve known this cat since he was a biting, scratching, conniving little thug of a kitten-monster.  He’s now a handsome, sleek, golden, cool and snotty thing, who won’t let you hug him, so it’s not like he’d ever be a pal. He’s a proper hit man.

So, the question remains. Given the choice – and here we have precious little other choice – do you want dead rats or live ones?

The saga continues.