Monster Pack Rats

 

I need a bigger gun. If not that, then a forklift.

A couple days ago I went to pick up my Ford Ranger 4wd at Mike Withrow’s Keystone Garage out on Coyote Trail. A week ago, yet another pack rat attack had wiped out all the under hood wiring doing close to $200 worth of damage. 

Late last summer, Mike’s mechanic crew repaired a similar demolition job on the same truck. I’ve been fighting pack rats for a long time out here on Baker’s Branch, years, and losing the fight. Last August, Mike put me onto a method used by his grandfather to fight the same beasts “back in the day,” and it worked. Well, until I slacked off just two nights in a row. 

I can’t poison the toothy monsters. That would work, but it would also poison my dogs (three) that would find the fresh meat lying about the property, eat it, and then die by proxy as it were. Trapping is an “iffy” proposition at best, and once near-missed by a trap (it happens), like wild pigs the wild rats become almost impossible to trap. So, what to do? 

Many people, knowing my problem, suggested the most obvious solution: buy some cats. Hey, already thought of that. Maybe yours wouldn’t, but my dogs would eat the cats. 

Mike told me last summer his grandfather figured out raising the hood on all his vehicles stored around the barn where the damage to his vehicles was being done, guessing the critters might not like daylight shining in on their bedding sites. He was right. The pack rats left his vehicles alone when the hoods were popped and left that way. 

I tried it and it worked as well for me, until one two-night span last week when I left the Ranger parked right next to the house on the concrete pad in front of my garage, with the hood down, figuring just two nights parked that close to the house would not invite any problems. 

First night, no problem. Second night, and then the following morning with an errand in town, I was barely able to drive the truck out of the driveway and over to Mike’s garage. I knew without looking under the hood what the problem was. 

Mike called when the truck was ready. Again. One hundred and sixty bucks. It was plain my rat problem was getting very personal. The night before “pay day” for the truck, I discovered my riding lawnmower’s electrical connections had been similarly wiped out. 

It was all getting very personal. I won’t be mowing grass for a good three months, but it’s coming, and I’ll be making a call to Mike Dutra, back from Iraq in his country’s service, and trying to make a living repairing lawnmowers out near Tower Road with the skills Uncle Sam gave him. But, one disaster at a time. 

“Conrad. I’ve got something to show you.” 

I was in the office of Withrow’s Keystone Garage repeating a familiar routine, pulling out my check book so I could drive my truck home from yet another rat job. Mike was pulling out his cell phone, and firing it up. I leaned in close to see what he was dialing up. I shouldn’t have. 

“Let me see here, let me see. Here it is,” he said triumphantly, pushing the camera’s face right in front of mine. “Whatta’ ya’ think of that?” 

Oh, my, goodness. Practically jumping out of the face of Mike’s cell, was the biggest pack rat I had ever seen in my life, and by now I have seen many and am somewhat entitled to pass judgement. There, in the picture, now dead, was being hoisted on the end of a stick by one of Mike’s mechanics, a pack rat of prehistoric proportions. You could easily see its completely furred tail, readily identifying it as a pack rat. 

This rat looked to be as big as a small pit bull, or at least a dachshund. Weight? Who knows? To me it looked to go at least twenty pounds, maybe twenty-five, a gross total Mr. Peterson’s field guides do not report, but then maybe he never lived out on Coyote Trail near Mike’s place. 

“How’d you get the picture? Did that thing come out of my truck?” 

“No, no,” Mike said, “an ol’ boy brought his truck in here a couple hours ago, and that’s what jumped out when we popped his hood to check it out. The danged thing started runnin’ around in that engine well like it was his own private race track. My boys were screamin’ and hollerin’ and tryin’ to stay out of its way. We couldn’t get it to stop long enough for one of us to get a good whack at ‘em. I jumped behind the wheel, fired it up, and backed it out of the garage into the daylight where we could get a good look at the thing. 

Finally one of the guys got ‘im with a torque wrench, and there he is.” 

“What? Did you say a forklift?” 

“No, no, a torque wrench!” 

Mike knows I’m hard of hearing, but a forklift didn’t sound unreasonable after looking at the picture, and in my defense I mentioned that. 

“It’s a big rat, alright,” Mike said. 

“It’s a huge rat,” I said. “You need to keep that picture. People won’t believe it without seein’ it.”

“I’m sayin’ people might not want to take their garbage out after dark out here after they see it,” Mike said.

“Well, just the same,” I said, “they need to know what’s out and about out here. What their dogs are barking at after dark might surprise them, or jump ‘em, or rip out all their wiring. They need to see this, and buy a bigger gun if they want to, or at least walk around in pairs after dark.” 

That’s what some of us out here on The Branch are doing. It wouldn’t do you to knock on our door after dark wearing a big, furry coat. I don’t care how cold it is outside.

© 2016 Conrad M. Vollertsen