My critter has a critter problem.
My critter is a geriatric 11-year-old chicken name Ruby. I think that’s 275 in people years, and sometimes she walks with a cane. She is a buff Orpington – picture what a basketball would look like if a kid glued feathers to it and stuck a beak and red comb on top.
She is the last of her brood – outliving all of her original sisters, and even a second round of poultry – to become the queen of her house: House Pollo.
Her egg-laying days are long over. She never really cared for all the work it required to provide us with something we would scramble or add to cakes. She saw her purpose as more of “house chicken.” A pet. A bird who preferred to be given the attention she deserved. She demanded to be carried around like a football, tucked snug under your armpit. There she cooed, watched the world and told you where to go.
Now, my critter has developed a critter problem. A vermin. A rat. From House Rattus. Infiltrating our chicken run, which has stood nearly impenetrable for all these years. It is wringed with thick wire mesh, locks, sturdy doors and even used to house a chicken who could dispatch invaders with a merciless strike. Not a chicken to be trifled with.
No more – we’ve been breached.
“AHHHH … RAT IN THE HEN HOUSE!!!” I heard my wife call out. “Hurry! Come quick!”
Hurry?!? Like that’s going to help being totally ill-equipped to deal with the situation. Like if I get there faster, this critter is going to take one look at me and think, “Man, this guy means business. Look at his lightning-quick reflexes. We better bounce.” Like I’m going to rush in there, scoop it up and … wait … what am I supposed to do? My first instinct was to run the other way.
For years it was a fortress. It kept out raccoons, hawks, the armadillos now rooting around under the shed, hurricanes, a cedar tree that fell during a hurricane and a whole mess of little kid birthday parties. It was built to be impenetrable. It has always been impenetrable.
And now my critter pen has a critter. The chicken seemed no worse for the wear. She was sitting calmly in a bed of pine needles, barely giving it a thought. “Eh,” she seemed to say. “He comes here from time to time. I think his name is Fred.”
We don’t name our vermin! Fred had to go, and suddenly my weekend task list had a new item on top: De-rat the hen house.
There are times in your life when you realize things haven’t quite worked out the way you thought they would. It was all going all right. You didn’t mind so much that things weren’t exactly the way you dreamed. You weren’t rich, living in some mansion with gardeners tending your manicured grounds. You weren’t calling out to for someone to bring you another bottle of the Chateau Le Stinkefeet. That was OK. You could get past all of that.
Or, you COULD get past all of that … right up until you heard: “RAT IN THE HEN HOUSE!!!”
That’s when you realized what your life really was. How far you’d fallen short of your hopes and dreams and aspirations. That your critters even have critters.
This is your life. Where did it go so wrong?
But it IS your life, and you might as well accept it. Own it. And get to work figuring out how to eradicate House Rattus from the hen house.
I’ve set traps, but the bugger is too smart. He knows to gently reach over the triggering mechanism to snatch the cranberry without getting his neck snapped. I added peanut butter to glue it in good, but I found he had licked it clean. I gave up when I realized I stood a better chance of getting stuck in the trap than he did.
I got into the run and tried to fortify it. I took a flashlight and carefully studied all the joints, all the corners and all the edges. It was like searching for the source of a roof leak. Rats are even more wily than water, though. They can fit through cracks that H2O wouldn’t try. Finding nothing obvious to seal up, I developed far-fetched explanations: “This rat can teleport! We have to move!”
Ruby sat in her bed of pine needles the whole time watching me. It was 95 degrees in the chicken run with humidity hovering around the bottom of a swimming pool. She didn’t mind. I tried to ignore the fact that she likely knew how he was getting in. That she didn’t want to hurt my pride by pointing it out. “It’s right there … where I pulled the wire back. But he’s so close. Let him have this win.”
After days of searching, I think I finally found it. A little hole in the ground where I’m pretty sure he was burrowing in. From the underground. A tunnel rat! The worst kind.
I buried lots of wire mesh under the run. I covered it with dirt. I felt pretty proud of myself. I don’t know if it will work yet, but I think I’ve done it. Ha-ha! I feel proud, and accomplished. That is, until I’m reminded that this is what my life has become: Battling tunnel rats. Carrying around a geriatric chicken. Even … wait, did I say armadillos under the shed? Where did THEY come from?
My younger self would shake his head in disbelief. Probably choose a different path. Probably get into Bitcoin early and have a helicopter by now. If only he knew. If only he could have headed it all off. Then hired someone to guard the critterhouse from the critters. That way he could drink more Chateau Le Stinkefeet.