APPALACHIAN TALES: ENCOUNTERS WITH RATS

By Grant McGee

            A friend was talking about his encounter with a giant rat in an alleyway in a big ol’ American city.  He said it was huge, it probably could have had a toy poodle for a snack the way he described it. 

            I first heard of giant rats from my dad.  He worked in hotels in some big cities.  When we lived in New York City I heard him telling my mom about the hotel’s maintenance crew having to board up nooks and crannies deep in the bowels of building to keep out “rats as big as cats.”  These things sounded vicious.  But not as vicious as the rats my buddy Catfish told me about when I was in high school.

            “Those clubs down in the bad part of town,” he said.  “There’s big guys at the door and they have rats on leashes.  They’re as big as bulldogs.”

            I listened with wide-eyed amazement.  Catfish was my best pal, so I believed every word he said.  It turns out Catfish was a teller of tall tales.  Okay, he was a flat-out liar, but he sure could tell a good story.  He told everything with such authority and conviction I had no idea he was fibbing.   As I got older I continued to believe people who talked with strength and conviction.  This might explain many a weird road I’ve gone down in my life, but those are other stories.

            I never had a problem with rats, I mean I knew they could be vicious but I figured a bad rat could be handled with a two-by-four, baseball bat or a decent cat.

            I don’t know why, but some folks are ashamed of having rats on their property.  For instance, once upon a time I worked at a radio station down by a river.  Because it was a radio station people would come by with stray pets for us to announce on our “Lost and Found” program.  One day someone brought in a puppy.  The front office staff fell in love with the thing and let it roam around the building.  As I sat at the control board doing my DJ thing I heard a scratching at the door to our music collection.

            Figuring the puppy had wandered back there through another door I went over to open it anticipating a happy little dog on the other side.  The door swung open and there was a big slick river rat sitting up on its hind legs, its front paws folded, its nose sniffing the air, its beady eyes staring at me.  I could tell it was as much taken aback by me as I was it.  It turned around and ran away through a hole in the wall.  I went out and bought some rat traps and peanut butter.

            I knew that peanut butter was a favorite rat treat from stories I read about the famous rat movie, “Willard.”  In order to get the Hollywood rats to scramble all over the actors they smeared the people with peanut butter then dressed them.  The actors would then act terrified while rats climbed all over them eating peanut butter.  People actually earned grocery money doing this.

            Anyway, the peanut butter worked.  As the days went by I announced the daily rat tally, the number of big river rodents we’d caught in the basement of the radio station.  “Here it is, folks, day five of our Rat War down here by the river and we’ve nailed four of the suckers.”

            The following Monday the boss came in the front door of the station like he usually did but instead of going to his office he burst through the radio studio door.

            “Are you going on the air telling people how many rats you’ve killed in our basement?” he asked.  His neck muscles were bulging.  This was a sure sign he was angry.

            “Well sure, boss,” I said.  “There’s two more in the traps this morning, that makes half-a-dozen.”

            “Don’t tell people about all the rats we have in the building,” he rolled his eyes upward.  “I was the laughingstock at church yesterday.  Rats and mice were all we talked about in Bible study.”

            I was about to tell him I didn’t see what the big deal was but then I remembered I did like getting a paycheck from a steady job.

            Rats moved into my groovy mobile home on the side of mountain.

            I knew this because I found rat poop under my sink.

            “This won’t do,” I thought as I went out and got a rat trap.  I didn’t mind trying to catch mice and letting them loose somewhere else but rats were a whole different thing.

            I got my trap, slathered on some peanut butter and set the thing under my sink.  I then proceeded to go sit in my easy chair and watch some TV.

            SNAP!

            I turned off the TV and listened.

            All quiet.

            I got up and went and looked under the sink.

            One dead rat in the trap.

            I picked up trap with rat and took it outside to the garbage.  As I dropped the rat in the bin I said out loud, “Sorry, you’re just in the wrong place and you had to go.”

            There was still peanut butter on the trap so I re-set it and went back to watching TV.

            About 15 minutes had passed and….

            SNAP!

            “Hisssss…hisssss…hisssss…”

            The noise from under the sink was loud.  I turned off the TV.

            “Hisssss…hisssss…hisssss…”

            I slowly got up, unable to wrap my head around what the hell I might have caught under the sink that was making such a racket.

            “Hisssss…hisssss…hisssss…”

            I opened the cabinet door.

            There was another rat about as big as the last one, but somehow the trap tripped on the rodent’s hindquarters.  There it was with the trap stuck to its back, crawling around under the sink using its two front feet.

            “Well,” I said to the rat.  “What am I gonna do about THIS?”

            “Hisssss…hisssss…hisssss…”

            I couldn’t reach down and pick it up, the rat might whip around and bite me.

            I sat for a few more moments.

            “Hisssss…hisssss…hisssss…”

            I got up and got my barbecue tongs.  I went outside and got a bucket.  I took the barbecue tongs, grabbed the trap with rat and dropped it in the bucket.

            I looked at the rat.

            “I’m real sorry, but just like your pal you’re in the wrong place.”

            “Hisssss…”

            I wished I had a pistol or something to quickly dispatch the wounded rodent.

            Then one of those imaginary lightbulbs went on over my head.

            I didn’t have a pistol but I bet ol’ Johnny living next door had one.

            I grabbed my bucket with my rat and headed over to Johnny’s mobile home.

            I knocked on his door.

            “Hey McGee,” he said, “What’s going on?”

            “I’se wondering if I could borrow your pistol and use a bullet, I’ll pay you for it.”

            Johnny scrunched up his face.

            “I need to kill this rat,” I held the bucket up for him to see.

            “Hisssss…”

            “DAMN,” Johnny whipped his head back.  He almost fell over.  He eased forward and looked again.

            “Just drop a damn rock on it,” he said.

            “Naw,” I said.  “That’s too personal.”

            Johnny looked me in the eye for a few moments.

            “Too personal?  Are you high?”

            “No man,” I said.  “I just figure a bullet is quick.”

            Johnny turned around, went inside his home and came back a few moments later holding his pistol.

            “Here,” he said.  “Waste of a perfectly good bullet.”

            “How much I owe ya?” I asked.

            “Nothing,” he said.  “I got plenty.”

            “I’ll be right back.”

            So I walked up the mountainside to a grassy spot, set the bucket down then tipped it over for the rat to leave.

            The rat came out of the bucket dragging the trap.

            I bent over and looked at the rat.

            “I’m real sorry about this,” I said.  “I’d a-liked to have seen you sent on to the next level with a quick snap, but that didn’t happen.”

            It seemed to stare at me for a moment then it stuck its face in a thatch of grass and didn’t move.

            Maybe it knew what was next.

            I pulled the trigger.

            Years later The Lady of the House brought home two white rats.  We called them Thelma and Louise.  She made a giant cage for them and they lived for two years at our bicycle shop.

            They were two sweet rats.

            I wished I could have kept them at home.  They could curl up with me in my recliner and watch TV.

            But there were cats at the house, they probably would’ve liked to play “Bat the Rat” with Thelma and Louise.

            Besides, I don’t think rats can be litter box trained.

                                                            -30-