Sitting in front of the screen the oth'a-daay (which sounds just like a
Letterkenny intro) I heard a slight splosh from the adjacent bathroom.
Which cat knocked what item, swiiish-nothin-but-water, into the toilet?—was my first cogent thought.
I sat up. The cats were both at my feet. They appeared to just be starting to refocus their attention (from contented catnap dreams) to the open bathroom door. I stood, entered the bathroom, and turned on the overhead.
Nothing. No noise. I looked at the bathtub, the sink, and the toilet. Is the surface of the water in the toilet moving ever-so-slightly? Is that a droplet of water on the seat? I took a step closer and saw a smallish very wet rat attempting to tuck itself in the shadow under the front rim of the bowl (about half the size of the rat in this stock photo).
Envisioning the potential of my apartment becoming a Tom and Jerry episode with the well-rested felines gleefully working in tandem to reenact the Jurassic World "clever girl" Velociraptor scene (because they have never seen Tom and Jerry) I closed the door, tucked a bath-towel in the crack at the bottom and then (in a foolish attempt to trap and not spook) I slowly lowered the toilet lid and grabbed a heavy pair of rubber dish gloves my wife uses when she dyes her hair.
While yank-stretching the wrist of the second yellow glove (heavily stained turquoise) the spooked rat crawled between the bowl and seat, landed on the linoleum with a splat, and (from its perspective) hid behind the trash bin. Since (from my perspective) it was in full view, I reached down to grab it. It screamed at my face.
I was already aware rats can scream. Rodents can at-times be heard scurrying in the walls of our building and, occasionally, I've heard them squeak in sufficient tone and volume (sometimes followed by what would only be described as tussle and chase and silent running through the ceiling) that my mind pictures one of two scenarios: Gimme that! or Get away! So I was not completely taken off guard when immediately following the mouth fully open tongue tight against bottom teeth scream I heard rat feet behind me in the wall begin to scrabble and vibrate down the interior of the wall's rough fiberglass bathtub stall. Instinct caused me to glance over my shoulder before I smiled down on the grey-brown vermin and said, "You calling in reinforcements on me?" It dashed around the back of the toilet, crossed the shower mat, and hid behind the cat's litter box.
On my knees, I slowly moved items (containers of cat sand, plastic bags, cleaning products) to gain access to the bottom of the bathroom closet (while being cautious of a face-jumping rat who had already proven it was comfy with waist-level parkour). Once I had the closet empty, and never found the rat nor heard it scurry past, I began searching for a small hole in the baseboard. No holes. No rat.
Time for reinforcements. I invited in the cats, re-closed the door, and re-tucked a towel tightly under it. They slowly searched with their noses. The cat with seniority, Agatha-called-Aggie-or-Agz, now in possession of 19 years of experience told me, after a few short minutes, that the rat was in the one inch gap between the under-sink cabinet and wall.
After I confirmed her observation with a flashlight, I left them to perform guard duty (towel tucked under door from the exterior) while I planned and began searching for extrication equipment.
My definition of success was:
- All four participants part-ways physically uninjured (with no rabies shots needed).
- No blood or gore or loose rat components stuck in the one inch wide (2.5cm) by three-foot deep (90cm) dust-filled cranny (which would necessitate hours of sink-cabinet and plumbing de-construction/disconnection to clean).
- No rat reinforcements arrive. Was this even a thing? Did I really need to consider another crawling out of the sewer? Wasn't this a one-in-a-million fluke? This is tiny-town-Vermont where the wildlife is prevalent everywhere outside, not attempting to gain entry to the land of domesticated rodent predators through the drainpipes.
- No Tom and Jerry episode unfolds in the house or bathroom.
I removed the guard cats, replaced the towel, added a second towel, and then tightly plugged the toilet with a large scrub pad. Then—with a three-foot long piece of wood moulding [¾ inch (2cm) by ½ inch (1.25cm)] in one gloved hand and a plastic bag in the other—I approached the flashlit space and slowly nudged the rat's butt with the stick.
It turned and began to climb the stick toward my hand as I tipped the far end down to slow it's climb while simultaneously raising my hand toward the upper lip of the cabinet top (which acted as a roof for the cranny). Tightly squeezed twixt (now horizontal) stick and underside of cabinet top, it cautiously smelled my gloves and then carefully squoze (squeezed?) itself into my hand. I dropped it into the plastic bag and took it outside where I dumped it in the snow. It probably has already found it's way back into my garage or my neighbors walls.
In conclusion, I want to explain why I do not use poison or traps (and never have):
- Rodents who eat poison could be consumed by a domestic cat (no matter how careful I am).
- Trapped house mice (no matter if killed or re-located) will soon be replaced by their field mice cousins. It currently is 7℉ (-14℃) and the forecast predicts it to not get above -1℉ (-18℃) next week and could be as low as -10℉ (-23℃) at night.
- I routinely put out nuts, grains, and seeds for birds, squirrels, chipmunks, rabbits, skunks, opossums and raccoons (as well as for any other local fauna, like the rare bear, deer, bobcat, and fox) who might or has already come into my yard. Only a massive hypocrite would poison the less cute (but smarter) animals who choose to spend time in the walls of this old house to avoid the winter.
