On the Other Side of the World

Bosco world:

Summer Madness
Jaysus, it was hot that summer in Dublin, hot enough for murder. “Bollocksing boiling, if you ask me,” said Sean, struggling to peel off his leathers. “If I had come of that ting,” he eyed his motorbike I would have skidded to Ballyfermot, that’s how much I’m sweating.” He looked cross at the wooden scaffolding, “Is that where they are, under there.” Kit, the other man, nodded. Now the two men and the teenage boy alongside them stood in the back garden looking at the wooden scaffolding. “It must be the heat makes them breed so much.” Kit turned, walked quickly to the chicken run, opened the wire netting gate, removed the covering tarpaulin; picked up the corpse and returned to them.
“Look!” “Mhurdering bastards.”
The victim in Kit’s hand, it might be said, had been caught in evolution's trap. For flightless birds in the face of the predator can only squawk in their terror and then, like man's early attempts to fly, perform a ridiculous blustering to get off the ground. Post this mad fluster of feathers for lift-off; exhausted they are returned by gravity to terra firma to stand defenceless against one of nature's brute offspring, the rat. But retaliation was in the stifling air

For the trio of avengers were in the back yard of a council estate house in Crumlin, Dublin, and they were seeking the murderers of the burnished gold biddy that now lay limp and inert in Kit’s hand. Now they turned to survey the chicken ‘run’.

Apart from biddies, there used to be pullets here; broilers, roosters, and cockerels; now each morning all Kit or Rory or one of the other children would find was another one or two of their hens lying there, broken and inert, their effulgent gold already losing lustre. Patrick, the family cockerel, and a handful of his biddy wives were all that remained of the strutting Bantams.

Rats had found a roof over their subterranean world under Kit’s wooden scaffolding. He had, in effect, built a summer house for them. Now that he was building contracting more, the wooden poles and planks were piled up on one side of the garden. It was from under this canopy the rats emerged those warm nights, to perform their murderous missions.

It had been the family's wire-haired terrier, Murphy, who had alerted Kit by his constant pawing at the ground. “There's a nest of them in there, under the wood, maybe many nests now, “Kit had speculated before asserting. “We’ve got to do something about this.”

So it was on this sweltering day that the children of the household and the neighbours now gathered for the spectacle, clambering over each other to get a better look. Rapt, they watched as the now wellington booted figures of Sean, Kit and Rory continued to move scaffolding. What they witnessed with the odd shudder was one or two furry animals darting with extraordinary speed from one protective wooden roof to another.

But now ‘Murphy’, was quickly under the wood, yapping and pawing furiously and a huge rat was out, completely exposed; desperate for cover in its panicked, darting runs, it hit the wire netting so hard that it bounced back, propelling itself into a somersault as it did so.

"Look! Look!" screamed the children as they saw the rat make its mad, daring diagonal run towards the house. The three wellington-booted men were after it with shovels, all missing as with whirring speed the rat darted for cover. "Don’t lean too far out of that window,” one of the men cried, looking up to the watching kids.

The children were straining at the open window as they peered down; to see that the rat had gone to ground and was in the waste water hole but it could descend no further for the hole had a protective sieve. They could see its crown just above the parapet as it crouched and hugged its trench; its head just seen peeking over the parapet, as if this was its Somme.
“Let the dog loose.”
Uncle Sean went quickly to release ‘Mixer’, who took off towards the drain as if unleashed to heaven. Its escape barred, the rat emerged in a flash and sped back towards the centre directly into the path of its pursuer. There was a cloud of dust as the rat was snapped up at neck and Mixer could be seen, his yelps stilled by his mouthful of grizzle. Patrick and his remaining family, all gold, green, bronze and silver shimmering in the sun, seemed to strut out their delight and goose-stepped their victory up and down the run.

The children watched this flurry of skin and teeth, the revulsion growing in them as Mixer obediently pranced over to Uncle Sean, and coached with a few pats, dropped the rat by their feet. "Right, first victim of the day. And not short of a meal by the look of him," said Sean.

Most of the scaffolding had now been removed and it showed a terrain that was pockmarked with a maze of burrow like small holes. Unbeknownst to the men, by removing the scaffolding they had caused a strange event to occur. Below in the subterranean world of these eerily bright animals, something had happened. Kit, Sean and Rory had inadvertently removed the visual clues of the rat. Now, the strong sunlight fell differently on the entry to the many holes below that dotted the ground. And it is by cues outside the rat run, rather than inside which guides rats; once spatial cues are removed, such as light, or patterns from a criss-cross of wooden spars, rats are literally lost.

What is it about rats? For even now, on the other side of the world, in Californian sunshine, rats were being put on wheels above a rising water environment and these animals armed with a disturbing intelligence knew that if they came off the treadmill they would drown. So there were many 'wows' and 'gees' when white coated Angelinos found that sewer rats gave up the struggle in minutes where as laboratory rats used to the good life of clean straw laboured on the treadmill as if was a hedonistic lifeline. Thus, through science, are we caused to think of futility and environment? “Next up, we should devise an experiment to see if these little guys have sense of humour. That would be neat,”

The dogs, Mixer and Murphy were becoming impossible to restrain, their piercing yelps increasing in volume as they pawed and nosed furiously at the earth. Shouts of instruction from Kit rang out as the sweating men endeavoured to restrain the dogs, Sean with two arms around Mixer’s neck as he tore at the hole, Rory tugging Murphy away.
"Help him!" came from Kit, as he held the now leashed Mixer. The resisting dogs were now tied to wooden stanchions. “Get the tin cans,” Kit yelled.
Rory and Sean rushed to the hut beside the chicken run and were out again almost instantly, Sean holding a cardboard box full of round grey rag balls and Rory a large tin can in either hand. Damp patches showed beneath their arms, their faces gleaming with perspiration. Sean now hurriedly started placing the rag balls by each hole. Rory trailing him poured the liquid from the can onto each until every rag ball was completely doused.
"Quick, the matches, where’s the matches?” ‘Here’ Rory threw the box of matches to his father. “Go to each end of the garden and get ready to set the dogs loose when I say.”

Kit then set about lighting each rag ball. As soon as the rag balls were ignited they were given a firm kick by a wellington boot down the appropriate hole. "Now!"In unison with the command came the release of the dogs and the hurried lighting of the remaining rag balls. The first of the panic-stricken rats emerged. The awed silence of the spectators was almost audible. A chaos of sound screeched out; men; dogs; the rats desperate, their doomed squeaks peeps coming up to the onlookers. The smoke from the balls mingled with the heat haze, making the smell on that torrid day, foul.

Some of the rats were felled by murderous blows of metal shovels on their heads. Those who escaped were now seen desperately trying to crawl up the wire netting at the side of the garden. Their wood covered Dardanelles gone, some had now gathered in a threatened group in the comer of the garden to await. All who were not taking part felt their flesh creep as they compulsively eyed the happenings.
"Uncle Sean, on the shovel!"
The warning came from the window up above. A rat was crawling up the shovel handle. Sean distractedly looking up for one confused second and then in a flurry shook the rat off and blood was seen on one the men for the first time.

The spectators noted Murphy was not up to Mixer, the bitch. At times, it seemed the black and grey furry things would converge on the dog as Murphy, less experienced, darted madly to and fro. Meanwhile, Mixer, her white coat making the loud marks on her legs clearly visible, was harrying away. One rat had managed to raise itself on to its hindquarters and stick on the dog’s buttocks, its teeth embedded.

"Kit, quick, look at Mixer," Kathleen shouted, opening the kitchen window a slit."Close that window," shouted Kit as he rushed off to the dog, kicking a couple of rats on the way, one thumping not far from the just closed window. "Close that bloody window!" In almost the same instant he lashed out at the dog’s hindquarters. Mixer was sent dizzily reeling by the kick, his persecutor instantly dead. The men now regrouped at the centre of the garden, their blows less furious by this time and aimed mainly at the rats writhed in dying paroxysms. Through this mayhem the sun blazed down on the rat’s suffering

Now there was a pause; the two men and the boy surveyed their work, wiping their brows. At the corner of the garden the few remaining rats cowered up against the netting in terrified assembly. While the dogs stood obediently by their masters, their enthusiasm flagging, willing now rather than eager.
"A cornered rat, always beware of cornered rat."
The small army steeled itself, then with a rush and bolstering war cry of shouting and curses, attacked. The two dogs were there before them. Amid human shouts of vengeful ferocity, came the animal mixture of barking, yelping, squealing and peeping. The rats had nowhere to go. But the sheer instinct of survival forced them to attack, in darting forays. The final act of the drama had an almost balletic quality. The men, tired now, appeared to move in slow motion as the pests were splattered in halves on the wire netting and the dogs hopped and danced into the air from bitten paws. And then it was over, the finale being posted by Kit as he crooked himself exhausted over the supporting shovel.
"Alright, alright," he panted, signalling victory.

There was an eruption of applause from the adjoining garden of the Kelly’s. Kit looked up, and declare to God, the Pruntys too were all leaning out of their windows and applauding. In embarrassed acknowledgement, Kit gave a royal wave of his shovel before turning to his assistants.
"You're a brave lad, isn't he Sean?" "Aye, a right soldier," Sean congratulated.

The trio now stood surveying this cemetery for rats. Rory, bespattered with sweat, looked up at his father. “It’s a strange thing Dad, but I feel a bit sorry for them.”