WILLARD

February 27, 2009 10:22 AM Filed in: The OutSide

We have 5 inside/outside cats here at the office, but we have only 1 house rat, Willard. He's about the same size as your average agouti, somewhat larger than a gray squirrel. Well, Willard got to removing all the dry cat food out of the dish on the shelf on the porch and storing it behind the trash can. Every night he would tote off and stash about 2 cups of dry food and he was getting fatter and fatter, but really pretty—shiny coat, bright eyes, pink toes, a fine specimen of Rattus norvegicus.

Anyway, the ladies around here did not find him amusing and demanded his removal. Since the cats were totally uninterested in the job, it fell to me. I whipped out my trusty live catch trap, baited it with peanut butter, removed Willard's stash and replaced it with the trap—which he found amusing. He sniffed all around it and said he wasn't interested in that game.

Willard disappeared for three days, apparently insulted at the idea. One day, one of the inside cats was eyeing my magnificent jackalope shoulder mount. Never interested before, he was jerking his head back and forth as if following something erratic. I went into the attic right over the horned rabbit mount and said out loud, "O.K., what's going on?" Nothing, for the longest time, and then Willard poked his head up over some elk antlers. I said, "Son, what are you doing up here?" and he leaned at a hole in the floor to show me his new pad. I said, "Hold on, I've got something for you." He waited patiently as I got the trap and this time some organic peanut butter with no preservatives and stuff like that. Willard is a bit picky. I put the trap down and started back down the steps when the trap slammed shut. I felt so bad seeing him sitting there with his little pink toes wrapped around the wire of the cage, but I had my orders and Willard had to be evicted.

I half jokingly asked him where he wanted to go and he said "OUT!" He was not amused in the least.
I figured I had to take him far enough away that he couldn't beat me back to the office, so I thought of a cemetary more than a mile away. We loaded up and drove through the cemetery, down to the bottoms where there was a nice creek, plenty of trees and grass and just a hop, skip and a jump away from an abandoned barn. What more could a small town rat want?

I got Willard out and walked a short way down a peaceful lane, trees budding, wildflowers nodding, birds singing—everything a well-cultured rodent SHOULD be happy to see. I sat the trap down on the grass of the lane to let Willard see and feel the new tender shoots. He was still unimpressed and had a definite frown on his brow. Why was I feeling so guilty? Sure, I had betrayed his trust, but this was a truly magnificent place . . not "home", at least not yet, but a fine place . . . quiet cemetery on one side of the branch and barn on the other.

I opened the cage and Willard would not budge. He sniffed the grass at his feet, sniffed at the fresh spring air and ever so slowly tippy-toed to the cage opening—whiskers twitching and coal black eyes sparkling in the dappled light. He stuck one foot out as softly as a kitten patting sunshine. And with a little bunny hop he was onto the grass.

"See, I said, this place is NEAT!" And before I got through with the exclamation point, Willard locked down into a bird dog point, with one foot raided and tail straight out. It was a modified stationary panic if I've ever seen one.

Zap! In a flash he cut a 180 back up the lane toward the car, going so fast he disappeared in a series of concentric circles into the shadow beneath the car.
I ran up the lane to see where he was going, yelling "Paradise is that way", pointing back over my shoulder. Willard was nowhere to be found. I could only assume he passed beneath the car and into the overgrown ditch on the other side . . surely.

In hopes of shooing him in the proper direction, I circled the car several times, knelt down against the car, looking as best I could see into the undercarriage, but no Willard. Satisfied that he was gone, I banged on the sides of the car all around, just for good measure—that tells you how satisfied I was.

I drove slowly back up the hill in the cemetery and decided to check out a few plots to see how long some folks lived, hoping to beat their longevity records myself. I shut the car off, got out, and couldn't help but keep watching the car out of the corner of my eye. Ready to leave, I said,"What the heck, I'll just pound the sides of the car again, just for good measure". The resounding racket must have resembled a war dance. Cranking up, I headed over the hill.

Well, it was a nice morning, why not circle around the headstones and magnolias a few more times, all the while looking out the side mirrors at the roadside behind? Isn't that the way most folks pass a nice morning in a cemetery?

I was starting to feel more confident about Willard in his new home, down by the creek, and since I was out, I might as well stop and get some gas. It took me a few minutes— and why not check the tread on the tires?—and see how “things” look up under the car. Looks good. I paid up and gave the car a good slap on the side and watched to see if any clinging "debris" fell out onto the cement.
As nice a day as it was, I really did need to get back to the office. I rattled over the railroad tracks, hitting them a bit harder than I usually like and still drove more in the rear view mirror than watching out the windshield.

Turning into the big parking areas behind our old downtown buildings, I reasoned that all this open space would look much better if at least one car was out in the middle of it . . . who cares if I have to walk an extra 50 yards instead of parking right at the back door? Pulling out into that 4 acre lot, I sat there thinking about Willard, hoping he would be all right in a strange place with stray dogs and cats and great horned owls and . . . well, he's smart, he'll make it.

I stepped out onto the tarmac, slammed the door, looked toward my back door, took one step and was passed by a brownish black fur ball, bookity, bookity, booking it back into the bushes not 15 feet from where I had extracted Willard from the attic a good hour before.
I closed my mouth when I felt a gnat on my tongue.
"Shoot, I needed gas anyway!"
There's just no place like home.