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Have you ever had a rat in the ceiling? At night it started - I think that rat must have thought he was in some sort of rat derby the way he pounded around the ceiling race-track. Ollie was riveted. With staring eyes he glared at the ceiling in undisguised longing. We pondered. "What about poison?" suggested John. I shuddered. I was not prepared to poison anything - even a rat. "Traps?" queried John. More shudders. Sometimes traps don't kill them properly and the rat has to be despatched. I remembered a ghastly episode in my youth when I flatted with a girl-friend. We set a trap for a rat and caught it by the tail. Reinforcements had to be called in to finish it off.
John made a brilliant suggestion, "How about Ollie?" he said. Bingo. We found a ladder and opened the manhole. (or is it a personhole) Ollie was champing at the bit. He purred as John carried him up the ladder and reached up to insert him into the loft. There was a pounding of feet, a lot of thumping and crashing around and then - silence. John shone a torch into the loft and there was Ollie - a huge rat dangling from his jaws.
You might think that when the rat was carried down from the loft and given a decent burial in the garden that that would be the end of the matter, dear reader. But one thing was forgotten - Ollie was still in the loft. A simple matter to lift him down, I hear you say. We thought so too.
John reached up to lift down Ollie who had seated himself obligingly beside the manhole. Instant mayhem. Ollie spread-eagled himself and attached himself to the sides of the manhole with every claw. He let out some deafening yowls as if he was being murdered. I took John's place on the ladder and had a go. More mayhem. Ollie seemed to have a million claws and paws. Lift one paw off, two others seemed to appear to take its place. If he couldn't attach himself to the manhole my arm did just as well. Teeth were also engaged. John and I were battered and bleeding.
We tried leaving the ladder under the manhole and retreating. After all, Ollie would jump down when he was hungry enough. Forget it. Ollie had no intention of leaping into an abyss. His yowls became deafening. I gave up. Food was placed beside the manhole and a litter box nearby. Days passed.
I was the one who thought of the sack. If Ollie was in a sack he wouldn't know he was going down the manhole and all would be well. I managed to climb up into the roof and Ollie practically licked me to death. He was sick of living in the ceiling. I'd found a really big sack and with a lot of coaxing and sweet-talk managed to ease the back end of Ollie inside. Then I did a quick flip, pushed the rest of him in and closed the top. All hell broke loose. John was waiting on the ladder to grab the sack but the writhing bundle was too much for him. Man and sack bundle clattered terrifyingly down the ladder and ended in a heap on the floor.
John put his back out and ended up going to the physiotherapist for some months but Ollie was fine.
Editor's note:
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