To trap a rat

Patti Jo and I were recently told by an expert that it’s been a bad winter for rats in Laguna Beach -- meaning it’s been a bad winter for people in Laguna Beach who don’t like rats. We were consulting the expert because it’s not shaping up to be such a great winter for us in that regard.

Our dog Booker was first to notice. We heard him barking out back the other day, addressing himself to a fat rat sunning himself atop the wall separating our patio from the ice-plant slope behind it.

This was the second rat I’ve seen in our back yard. Long-time readers may recall the first one, who was relatively easy to capture because he had half of a plastic Easter egg stuck on his head.

This guy, however, had no apparent handicaps and plenty of confidence. I threw a few baseballs near him to chase him back into the ice plant, but he ignored them and finally hopped down onto some nearby steps and waddled over to a planter to chew on some grass while we chewed on the problem of what to do with him. I could have hit him with a baseball but I was too squeamish to squash him.

I was indignant too. Laguna Beach is supposed to be exclusive. Not long ago, a guy across the street told me there were rats in the palm trees, but I took that to be a delusional remark equivalent to “there are Martians in the drapes.” Now I think there may be such rats here, who have a better ocean view than any of us and don’t pay extra.

The rodent in our back yard behaved as if he’d eaten the deed. He practically sat back and crossed his legs. Patti Jo had a broom and I had a laundry basket, so we approached from opposite directions. I got close enough to drop the basket down and trap him. The rat and I froze for a few moments, and then I sprang like a trap and got him! -- except I didn’t, because at the last millisecond he somehow spun away, dodged the basket, hopped and stopped, and waved his head around. In football that’s taunting -- you can get penalized for that.

I thought, what manner of creature is this -- what devilish mixture of serenity, malignity and agility? He knows I won’t hit him. He knows I can’t catch him. It turned out he also knew that if he ran right at Patti Jo she’d get out of the way.

He went under the toolshed. We blocked up the sides and back. He ran out under the front, returned to the planter and started eating again. After 15 more minutes of silent comedy, Patti Jo and I went inside, shut all the doors and plotted a new approach.

The exterminator came the next day and set up a few traps. The idea is that the rat is going to squeeze into a bait box, steal the food, walk away and drop dead three days later. Maybe. But I’m reminded of a guy I knew back in Chicago who moved in with my roommate and me for a year without either of us knowing who invited him. I worry that I’m going to come downstairs tomorrow and find a fat rat on the couch eating Trix and sitting on the clicker.20060203hrimoxkf(LA)