The mystery of The Brown Splodge, Part II

As I was pottering around at home yesterday afternoon, I found two actual poos: one by the front door, one by the bed, and both as big as those oversized jelly beans you get in liquorice allsorts (torpedoes?). Now I come to think of it, I think they’ve been there a couple of days and I was just in denial, subconsciously convincing myself that they were just bits of dirt from my shoe, or a dead insect or something.

So, I went straight out to find some rat poison. You’d think it would have been easier to get hold of than it was, but nonetheless, I eventually found a shop that sold it and bought 10 packets (I wasn’t taking any chances).

As recommended by the shopkeeper in broken English, I tore a slice of bread into four pieces and placed each on the lid from a jar or tupperware. I then sprinkled two packets of the very, very fine, dark grey powder (who ever thought it would be a good idea to make a poisonous substance so fine that it puffs up into the air so you can breathe it right in?!) over the four pieces. I placed one lid by each of the poo sites, one near the kitchen (figuring it was probably after food) and the final, biggest one by the drainage pipe in the bathroom – the only possible entry point I could identify, unless he was casually strolling in through the open door on a sunny afternoon.

Within half an hour of putting the poison in place, I heard a slight scratching in the bathroom. When I looked in, the entire piece of bread – a piece the size of my palm – had gone! In broad daylight, and while I pottered in the other room with the radio on, the beast had snuck in and stolen a piece of food half the size of his body. 

Now, I don’t like rodents. In fact, that’s a bit of an understatement: ever since a mouse ran out from under my pillow whilst I was in the bed (London mice are the cheekiest, stupidest little creatures), you could say I’ve had a bit of a phobia. But the brilliant thing about being out here and being afraid of everything, is that, it’s helped me to put certain fears into perspective. For most of the things I’m scared of, when I ask myself “What’s the worst that could happen?”, the answer is usually death. So when something comes along that in can’t really hurt me, let alone kill me, I’m actually pretty thankful. Nonetheless, my knees were wobbling a bit.

So I moved two of the other pieces of bread to what I now knew was his entry point, leaving the one in the bedroom in the hope that it would remain untouched and I could convince myself before going to sleep that he didn’t like coming into the bedroom. I went out to meet up with some other volunteers for a couple of hours, and when I came back, the other two pieces in the bathroom had disappeared. 

Assuming that Nigerian rats were considerably smarter and more cunning than London mice (since it was managing to steal large pieces of bread without me even seeing it), I wandered round the house carrying the radio and with heavy footfall to make sure it knew I was back. The bread in the bedroom remained untouched; relieved, I moved it into the bathroom. I jumped straight into bed and tucked the net in extra tight (thank God for mosquito nets!).

This morning, the final piece of bread is still there (a three course bread-and-poison meal is probably enough for any rat), and I can neither see nor smell any signs of dead rat inside the house. And I have to say, I’m pretty proud of myself for dealing with it all on my own and managing to spend the night in a house with a rat.

Of course, there’s a big assumption I’m making here. Having never seen it, and not being an expert on animal droppings, all I know is that something or someone is sharing (and pooing in) my house and it likes bread but can’t manage a fourth piece. Who’s to say it’s actually a rat…?