Readers of a certain generation (i.e., mine) will no doubt remember the not-so-golden era of schlocky television sitcoms.
One subgenre of lowbrow ridiculousness was what I’ll call Country Bumpkin TV: The Beverly Hillbillies, Petticoat Junction, Green Acres.
I’ve conjured up memories of Green Acres more than a few times while making the transition from suburban to country living. Plot: City folk move to the country. Comedic mayhem ensues. Featuring me as the country bumpkin.
It hasn’t exactly been a comedy of errors. More like a series of educational misadventures.
I’ve written about the Invasion of the Winged Ants and the Battle of the Monsoon Swallows. But there’s more. All new for me, but probably old hat for my neighbors.
The rattler coiled around the flowerpot.
The new heat pump, rendered out of service by pack rats chewing through the wiring.
Letting the dog out at night to do his business, only to discover his business was chasing a skunk.
The relentless overnight snacking, by creatures unseen, on every living thing planted around the homestead.
All this, however, was nothing but a warm-up act for the biggie—the first true wife-screaming trauma of Santa Rita Court.
The Rat in the Dishwasher.
Let’s set the scene: It’s a lovely Fall morning. The doors are open. The cats and dog are enjoying their morning explore while The Mrs. waters what’s left of our nibbled vegetation. I’m in the back room, pecking away at a keyboard.
A scream pierces the calm. “RAT. RAT. RAT.” I dash into the kitchen, see a varmint scurrying across the floor, trying to flee a pack of jacked-up house pets, turn my back to reach for a broom in the closet, and then, nothing.
As in where did it go.
I opened every door and drawer. Peered under and behind every piece of furniture. Poked every crevice. Made loud noises. Eventually all I could do was hope that it had escaped the frenzied mob and found its way back outside.
It hadn’t. Hours later came the first clue. A strangely curious group of cats and the Mini Pin, huddled near the dishwasher. (Did I mention that we have cats? Nine of them. Supposed to keep the critters at bay. Must be city cats.)
I took off the bottom plate, poked around. Poked some more through the cabinet opening for the water line. Briefly considered trying to pull the dishwasher out and taking it apart, thought better of it.
Nightfall meant barricading the cabinet doors under the sink and stuffing towels under the bedroom door.
Day 2 dawned with rat droppings under the sink. So it’s off to the hardware store for Rat-X—hoping against hope that it doesn’t pop out, eat the bait, and tunnel back into the dishwasher before croaking.
Day 3: More droppings under the sink, but no rat. And no pets clustered around. Instead, the Mini Pin is pawing at my desk in the back room, then at the bookcase. Now it’s time to start tipping furniture, broom at the ready, door into the garage propped open as an escape route. (The city cats, meanwhile, have gone into hiding.)
And then, movement behind the bookcase. I jab with the broom. The rat pops into the open but doesn’t take the escape route. Instead we go back and forth, back and forth, until finally, I redirect it into the garage.
I had hoped that the rat fled the garage and ran far, far away. But of course, I was wrong. The star of the show, it turns out, was our little Mini Pin, Samuel, previously known primarily for being annoying.
While I was away taking care of some of my business, The Mrs. texted.
“Sammy killed rat in garage. … Carrying it in mouth. Agh. … Now burying under planter.”
Turns out Mini Pins’ heritage dates back to 17th century Germany, where they were prized as “ratters”—hunters of vermin.
Good dog. And another lesson learned by the country bumpkin.
Epilogue: The rat may not have had the last laugh, but it does get the last word. The very next time we turned on the dishwasher, the kitchen flooded.
Tune in again next week