The Rat in my Nest

When Death Becomes Life, Love It

Whenever my young daughter sported tangled, messy hair, I’d say, “It’s a rat’s nest.” I then tried to comb out said nest, while my daughter screamed in protest. She’s now dealing with her own daughter’s rat’s nest, but that experience pales in comparison with finding an actual rat setting up housekeeping in my garage.

Of course, the conversation has turned to how to get rid of a varmint that once killed off half of Europe. Yes, I’m plotting this guy’s demise. But there’s a problem.

I hate killing critters almost as much as I hate thinking about Ratatouille running around where I live. So, in my household we’re having spirited convos about the best method for dispatching unwanted guests. It’s repulsive to think that rat vermin are poisoning the blood of our garage, a view I don’t normally identify with.

This particular rattus norvegicus has already twice outwitted the traps we set, dining on fine peanut butter but evading the snapping jaws. Apparently, the neighborhood brown rat gang has learned some stealthy moves since folks started keeping backyard chickens. Yet when the talk veered into using D-con poison, I balked.

And started thinking once again about death.

During my husband’s recent health crisis, he’s come close to buying the farm several times. Each time, I’m terrified, imagining my life without him. Then, when he miraculously improves, I sing God’s praises and check how much longer he must survive before the life insurance pays out. I can’t say I hold the same emotion for Mr. Rat, but I am worried about other animals somehow ingesting the poison used to get rid of rats. And all the cats, dogs and raccoons out there don’t even qualify for insurance.

This inane line of thinking isn’t important except for one thing—life and death always have consequences. And it’s always about whether love or hate will win out.

The old sci-fi story about the Butterfly Effect tells us that every small act has a reaction. Even God, the moment he gives Eve to Adam, lays out consequences. Eat the wrong fruit and you’re toast. So what kind of reaction will I have to death, whether it be a pest or my best half?

I think the answer lies at the very heart of love.

As a child, I lived at the edge of the desert in Yuma, Arizona. I wandered the giant sandbox in the back yard, marveling at trap door spiders, full of wonder over horned toads and avoiding jumping cacti. At night, scorpions scrabbled inside the walls of my bedroom. My father took eradicating them very seriously. As the slayer of scorpions, Dad was a hero and I loved him dearly. Death led to life—and love.

Jesus says the only way to cheat death is to overcome dark with light, banish malice with mercy and bury hate with love.

As squeamish as I am over a rat infestation, I’m looking for that same pay-off. I’m ashamed to say that it’s so much easier to kill that which one does not love. In rats and marriage and war, humans too often misappropriate dominion just so we can claim to be better than whatever we slaughter.

I sound like a 60s-era antiwar hippie, but that’s because I am one. Make love, not war, was our mantra, and most of us meant it. Yet what do you do with a creature who carries plagues and steals peanut butter?

Do I do what Jesus said and turn the other cheek? Pray for my enemy? Or call the Pest Control company?

All kidding aside, I’m not going to invite the rat to make himself comfy and tell all his friends. But as my husband tries to regain all he’s lost; I’ll make his journey easier with truckloads of love. He may always drive me nuts, and who knows if he’ll last long enough for insurance, but I don’t care. There’s just something about that guy that I love.

No doubt I’ll eventually outsmart the rat’s nest—no benefit in risking another outbreak of the plague—whether it’s by trap or the Pied Piper. I kinda/sorta love this interloper as part of creation, but one way or another, he’s gotta go. He’ll be as anonymous as victims of war always seem to be. Give someone a name and suddenly they matter, suddenly they’re worthy of love. Sorry, Mr. Everyrat.

Yet death stalks everyone. One day my husband will breathe his last, as will I and every other human since Adam. Still, I take comfort. Jesus says the only way to cheat death is to overcome dark with light, banish malice with mercy and bury hate with love.

That’s why I’m marrying love to my every memory, every sound, every scent, every touch of my loved ones as well as those I’ll never meet. I hope God’s OK with my no-rats policy—if not I’ll face the consequences. Rats need to move along now, but lucky for me, love never dies.

.