I would love to tell you that today’s blog post title is Charlie Brown reference, and it is, but it is with great mortification that I tell you it is meant, primarily, literally.
The supermice? The mighty mice? Are rats. I have been in denial for some time now; I had to come to terms with ticks this year, and I think that’s rather enough for one year, don’t you?! And as long as I don’t say it, then it isn’t true, right? If I don’t actually use the “R” word, they are mice. Right??!!
I’m ready to say it out loud now: My name is Nina, and I have rats. There. I said it.
According to Chicken Debbie, they’re Norway Rats; I looked them up and found this pic:
I can confirm her conclusion, as I have seen them at eye level, running along the length of the top of the pony stalls that separate the two hallways in the barn, taunting me. Gentle reader, meet my rat.
So, I went to Tractor Supply the other day and bought a rat trap very much like this one:
I had had concerns about using poison because the chickens might be able to access the poison itself, or else the poisoned rodent, post mortem. This trap lures the rat in and traps it with the poison, keeping it within the trap while it dies a slow, and, hopefully, agonising death. Sorry to be so blood thirsty. I used to be such a softie.
Haven’t had much luck yet, however, perhaps due to placement. Last night at Tallulah Boost Time, I counted FOUR of the little buggers scoot out from under the poop pit for the relative safety of the door track while I was standing right there.
This morning, I saw this little gem, a fooking tunnel eaten right through the remaining bale of alfalfa:
These wee beasties clearly have time on their paws.
Chicken Debbie assures me that they are quite prodigious at population expansion, so I shall have to act swiftly and without mercy. I swear, my heart has been replaced with stone. Had I the necessary reflexes, I would crush their skulls underfoot as they scurried past.
I am a changed woman. The rats have changed me.