Rats! They fought the dogs and killed the cats,
And bit the babies in the
cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of the
vats,
And licked the soup from the
cooks’ own ladles,
Split open the kegs of salted
sprats,
Made nests inside men’s Sunday
hats,
And even spoiled the women’s
chats
By drowning their speaking
With shrieking and squeaking
In fifty different sharps and
flats.
The Pied Piper of Hamelin – Robert Browning
Dear Grandad,
There’s a family of rats living in the branches of a tropical fern-like plant in our garden. Had I been blessed with a greater interest in matters horticultural I would have been able to specify for you the plant in question, but as I’m shamefully agriculturally-ignorant I’m unable to elaborate.
A burst of unexpected warmth and torrential rain on rampantly fertile bayside soil has seen this tree sprout branches and foliage that just apparently screamed ‘multi-storey coastal living’ through whatever real estate network supports the rat community. A rat family of five has moved in, unperturbed by the proximity to a couple of retirement-age Australian Terriers who relinquished the chasey-terrier part of their nature some time back and are now embracing more of the Aussie bean-bag lifestyle and an inclination to simply observe.
I’ve been contemplating ways to have these rats removed from my backyard locale. Tomorrow, a chap who has oriented his career towards relieving hapless office folks from the need to tend gardens is coming to raze unkempt trees, trim untamed shrubs and remove all evidence of unfettered gall wasp on a beloved lemon tree. He’s not had the presence of a rat family in the ferny tree specifically outlined, but he’s been advised of the need to cut that sucker back, hopefully prompting the rat family to move elsewhere.
Much as I hate rats, as my running buddy will attest, having been shoved sacrificially into a drain as a protective instinct when I unexpected encountered one in a morning training session, I don’t want to actually poison them with chemicals that will Chernobyl their insides.
I’d like a softer exit for my rodent family. I’d like them to somewhat-voluntarily relocate. Preferably to Hampton.
This humdrum conundrum was just another reminder of you Grandad. It never stops. Although you’ve been gone for eight years, you are still present.
I’d made it habit to send you a post card each time I travelled to a new country. Last month, I was in India for the first time. Habit made me pick up a post card to send to you. I put it down again, but sent you a mental message to say hi.
When I was small enough that I was still sharing a room with my sister, which left a spare room that was yours and Grandma’s when you made the 350km visit to our family home, I vividly recall being tucked up on a Sunday morning, with you telling me the tale of the Pied Piper of Hamelin. You were able to recite, verbatim, the 2000-odd words of Browning’s poem. Only now do I realise how amazing this was. At the time, I was struck by the skills of the piper, his command over the rats, the concept of guilders as currency and the cautionary tale about the local government shafting the rat-removal contractor and losing all the town kiddos in the process.
I didn’t comprehend the love of words and embrace of poetry that led you to memorise Browning’s words.
Now I do.
I’ve learned so much from you.
I’ll keep you posted on the rat family relocation.
Love Kylie
xx