Greg lives in one of the oldest houses in Halifax. It’s so old that the best way to get from his bedroom on one side of the house to the bathroom on the other side of the house is by way of a swing (really). Anyhow, Greg is prone to adventure. And prone to writing about his adventures in the first person. This is one of them.

“I think we have a chance to kill the rat,” Tom whispered, “meet me in the front hallway.”

“Be right there. I’m just outside.” I closed my cell and finished parking the rental cargo van. Tom stood in the doorway of our century old decrepit Halifax home. He quietly asked me to take my shoes off and motioned to follow him.

Alright, he’s definitely stoned, I thought to myself.

At the entrance to the kitchen he raised his hand and mouthed the word “listen.” Wet gnawing and chewing came from the corner, underneath the food shelf.

The rat had only made itself known three days prior. I sat quietly with a friend reading magazines at the kitchen table when the rat leisurely ambled across the floor and disappeared somewhere behind the stove. The fist sized hole that had been bored through the corner of the two inch thick cellar door suddenly made a lot of sense.

“I’ll get my gun,” I happily suggested. Tom turned around and handed me my air rifle which had been leaning next to the stairs, and he had already loaded it. I laid on the ground and peered my head into the kitchen from around the cupboards. I aimed blindly into the darkness under the food shelf and shot four BBs. The chewing stopped.

We tip toed into the kitchen, Tom grabbed our biggest frying pan and I grabbed the broom. We shifted the table and the chairs away from the food shelf. With gun still cocked, I began to sweep reluctantly under the shelf. Tom stood at my side, frying pan raised above his head. My sweeping only produced a stunning amount of crumbs and rat shit. We quickly ripped items off the shelf in hopeful fear of spotting the rodent.

Nothing.

The only space between the food shelf and the obvious route of escape, the hole in the cellar door, was the corner behind the fridge. I noticed that Tom had sinisterly plugged that hole up with blue and green cleaning sponges. It certainly was a cleansing process. Tom handed me his frying pan and wrapped both arms around the refrigerator, doing the refrigerator dance, shimmying and shuffling backwards. The rat came bolting out straight for me. Screaming like little girls, Tom jumped for safety and I swung maniacally.

My first swing sent the big rat sailing through the air and, with a dull thud, smacked into the door of the fridge, landed sideways on the floor and took off for the food shelf. Quick movement caught my eye as a second rat made for freedom. The hairy bastard scratched at the cleaning sponges and within one quick lunge I came down hard on top of the poor little thing with the side of the pan.

For a few moments, Tom and I stood breathing heavy.

Tom took the frying pan from my hand declaring, “it’s still moving,” and mercifully finished it off. “Let’s get this over with,” I suggested and picked up the broom again. I started sweeping under the food shelf, and this time with no hesitation. Again, Tom stood poised at my side. Only a moment passed before the big momma rat shot out between us and a third rat came out from the corner but was momentarily forgotten. Tom chased and smashed and I was frozen against the wall. Tom spun in circles, pivoting on one foot and delivering two handed blows.

Ten smashes. It took ten smashes.

The rat was as big as the frying pan and just as resilient. The big momma rat was laid out like a trophy fur rug in front of the stove. All four limbs flat on the ground, pointing outwards, the tail straight back, and it’s pea brain and blood coming out of it’s mouth.

“There was a third one.”

“I know.”

We started with an inspection in and around the food shelf.

“I see it,” Tom whispered excitedly. “Look, look. In the corner beside the shelf!” It was hard to make it out, but there was the definite silhouette of a small rat.

“I got this one,” I replied. I pulled up a chair and sat at the kitchen table. I loaded up a BB, lined up my sights, my elbows resting on the table, and shot.

Nothing. No movement of the silhouette.

As quickly as I could I loaded another BB and pumped up the air pressure. I shot again, and this time a little yelp came from the shadows. The rat came crawling slowly out from the corner, leaning against the wall, drawing a thin red line of blood as it went. Tom sprung into action, grabbed the broom and swept the rat away from the wall.

“Shoot it again. Finish him off.”

I stood up and shot it again. It still moved. Tom took the gun and the third shot sent a mist of blood out from it’s side. Tom used the pan for the finale.

We stood still for a moment, Tom, the three dead rats and myself.

We walked into the living room, sat down next to each other on the couch and ten minutes passed with nothing said.

Tom finally spoke up. “The first job I ever had was at a driving range when I was fourteen. It was right next to a lake, and seagulls would get hit by the balls. My job was to go out there with a wooden baseball bat and beat them out of their misery.”

“Yeah, but how often were seagulls actually hit?”

“About four or five a week.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”