The Year of the Rat

by Kerry Blair

Yesterday was Chinese New Year—the very first day of the Year of the Rat. Raucous sounds of celebration could be heard late into the night in and around Blair House.

The celebrants were rodents. I took two aspirin, went to bed, and tried not to think about it.

I’ll bet you’re wondering what a nice girl like me is doing in a vermin-infested place like this. You’re not the only one. Suffice it to say that several years ago we moved to idyllic Chino Valley, a smallish town in central Arizona. Pastoral settings, vast blue sky, adundant fresh air, gorgeous vistas—it seemed too good to be true. It was. Little did we know that Chino is home to 11,000 people, 68 pronghorn, and 309487059872390582347523987520394875 mice. (The first statistic is from the Chamber of Commerce; the last is a conservative estimate on my part.) If you followed the link, you know my town’s website features pronghorn. If there were any truth in advertising going on around here, they would feature mice. The little critters are everywhere. Nobody has erected a statue in our town square, but if somebody did, it would probably look like this:

The fabled Town of Hamlin had nothing on us.

Not that I’m doing much in the War of the Rodents myself. . . besides complaining, that is. I used to do my part. Up until a month ago I kept a very effective biological mousetrap in peak running condition. Its only drawback was that it would occasionally let a rodent escape—injured—to die within the walls of our abode. (Let’s just say that when I described the stench of a rotting corpse in my last novel, I knew very well whereof I spoke.) Unfortunately, the cat recently went to college with my daughter and . . . hold on . . . I fear I phrased that badly. (David winced, LDSPublisher reached for her red editing pencil, and Jon now wonders what the cat is studying and if her grade point average is higher than Rob’s. NOTE TO JON: she’s pursuing a degree in eduCATion, and while she may not be too much brighter than Rob, she can stay on task longer.)

As I was about to tell you, with Finlee gone, things have really gone to the dogs. I mean mice. The dog is suffering as much as I am. Maybe more. This afternoon Bandit sat in the laundry room and whined. When I went to investigate I found a mouse eating out of her food dish. (I only wish I were making this up.) I hunted down our auxiliary cat—curled up in the easy chair as usual—and carried him into the rodent-infested room. Plopping him down, I opened the cupboard and pushed his nose toward the mouse droppings. He mewled once to indicate that somebody really should clean up that mess then retreated to a back bedroom to work in that 23rd hour of sleep he so desperately requires between meals.

I am at a loss to know what to do. I was able to justify cheering on my mouser as a circle-of-life kind of thing, but I’ve never personally murdered a rodent. How could I? Our culture is fervently anti-raticide. I mean, isn’t it? Correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems to me that the closest thing America has to royalty is a guy with two big black ears and fairytale castles smack in the middle of his theme parks.

For sure I grew up indoctrinated by Cinderella—the mice were her best friends! I never missed an episode of The Mickey Mouse Club. In fact, for years I wore an embroidered Mousketeer cap . . . with my name spelled wrong, no less. In later years I spent hundreds of dollars taking my children to The Secret of NIMN, The Rescuers, The Great Mouse Detective, and An American Tail parts I, II and MCXII—and then buying them all the stuffed rodents and ratty action figures their little hearts desired. (Even the mentor of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles was a rat. I remember his nasty little figurine best.)

I can’t seem to break the vermin-watching even in my twilight years. (It’s like trying to look away from a train wreck, I guess.) Just last week I told my husband over dinner that he had to do something about our furry little infestation or I would divorce him and move someplace without mice. Anyplace without mice. (Antarctica comes to mind. I like penguins all right.) After my diatribe I pulled out the Netflix feature-of-the-week. Wouldn’t you know it was Ratatouille? We watched in stunned horror the scene where all the rat—intelligent, good, defenseless creatures—carcasses were hung from hooks by two-legged fiends from heck. (I’ve never seen Schindler’s List, but I can’t imagine it could be any more chilling.) We didn’t speak after the movie, or even look each other in the eye. As you’ve probably guessed, Disney anthropomorphism triumphed again. Gary didn’t buy poison or set a single trap and I haven’t brought it up since.

Until today.

Rats have their own year? Is there no stopping them? Quick! Anybody got a pipe? (Either the kind you play to get mice to follow you gaily out of town,or the kind you use to beat them over their pointy little heads. I’m not picky.) First person with a sure-fire plan to rid my environs of vermin gets this:

If nobody comes through, I guess I’ll just wear the ears myself under the old “if you can’t beat them, join them” adage. And maybe things will improve on their own if I can only hang on. Anybody know what next year is? The Year of the Ox, maybe? Admittedly, we have a lot of cattle in Chino, but at least they’ll be easier to find if they get in my cupboards!