January 13, Vampire

Today is the 11th anniversary of my father’s death. While it was my intention to write a fragment dedicated to him, I was apprehensive before the magnitude of the task. But even if I did not know what exactly I was going to say, I did know that my father, always preoccupied with his image, we could even say, with the dissemination of his figure, was going to give me a hint. He was a man generous beyond his means, who loved making gifts. His gifts to me were often of such an incongruous nature, as to make me laugh in disbelief. Which today, of course, I miss badly. This Sunday’s gift might have been the following unexpected visit, preemptive in the face of my initial apprehension.

rocky and not-rat

Rocky jumped off the bed like he does when something is the matter. Usually an animal wondering outside, on the deck or in the meadow. It was still dark and since it is Sunday we would have liked to sleep in. He rolled downstairs in a rush and started barking. It did not take long to figure that the bark was not of wildlife on the other side of the window, but of wildlife in the house. An indescribable, mechanical screech responded once in a while to his angry taunting.

Colin took a bit to reach the scene. He is never one to rush down the stairs lest the house is under threat of flood or fire. I did not have my shoes nearby and hesitated to go down barefooted. Experience has taught me these visitors risk to be small and their potential aggression directed at one's toes or ankles. The thought flushed through my mind of a larger animal but I rejected it immediately. I could not see how a larger animal could just happen. Especially since, two nights ago, we had watched the most recent Hound of Baskerville, which makes possible all kind of wild intrusions into quiet country homes.

I shook myself up and found my slippers at the foot of the stairs. In the meantime Colin, some wobbly, plastic wand in hand, had assessed the situation. An animal was hiding under the armchair with Rocky dancing furiously the dance of the warrior, barking and foaming at the mouth, around it. How big the animal? Colin did not seem to know for sure. I got to my knees and realized we were dealing with the size of a rat. A white rat that is.

A rat? asked Colin. That's not good. Well, it's not that bad either, it seemed to me, since it is within our power, that is Alice's, Rocky's, mine and even Colin's, to deal with a rat, at least theoretically. Yet this rat was white, and as far as I know, and had again, just witnessed in the Baskerville movie, white rats, mice, rabbits, white anything, is the preferred kind in lab animals. So we were dealing here potentially with an escaped lab rat.

For a moment that seemed possible, except there was an obvious strong smell, we could call it almost stench, if it did not come from such a small creature, coming from under the armchair and, so far as I know, rats do not smell. Which introduced again doubt as to the nature of the animal. It was probably something else. Rocky's fury did not allow for a calm assessment of the situation so I had to take him back to the bedroom in spite of Colin's protest. He felt the dog was, indeed, in his opinion, defending us somehow against the threatening intruder.

I went again on my knees to peak under and saw, to my pleasant surprise, a lovely white and grey-ended furry tail, totally unlike that of a rat. Better yet, when the beast turned around, I could see v-shaped white teeth on a lovely face with pointy ears and a clear determination which looked less like fear than like calculation. Having put a heavy work mitten (it seems to be my preferred instrument of intervention) on, I extended my hand under the armchair and the animal came quite quickly and resolutely near, like one who would respond to a food offering. Except that he or she was quite resolute to take a bite off this  glove, with the relative conviction that it would be a productive move, which indeed it was, since I retracted my glove and set on a different path of action.

Having first opened the door to the deck, we entertained the hope that, like it is the case with bats, the white not-rat would do the reasonable thing and leave the premises into the rainy night. Because, I forgot to say, it was pouring outside. This would mean, waiting for him or her to figure out that the way was clear in that direction. That's how people think. The animal seemed to be interested in all other directions except of the door.

In the meantime, Alice came cautiously down the stairs. The racket should have brought her down earlier, but she did not seem to rush. Cautiously but curious, she approached the armchair and peaked under. Her tail started filling up gradually, but not too much. She lowered her head further, looked closer, backed up a bit and, slowly but surely, left that close proximity and all the while walking backwards chose an observation point some two meters away, from behind a basket on the floor.

I deduced the animal was in some way more intimidating than a rat, larger version of the mice Alice has no difficulty terminating. Her dexterity such that one would be hard pressed to perceive the point of entry through which her claw operates its lethal task. Her victims could truly be said to be sleeping the last, peaceful sleep. Or than a squirrel, or a chipmunk, who do not stir her in the least, except for some half hearted semblance of a chase leading nowhere. No, this not-rat inspired in Alice if not fear, certainly respect, which I took note of and adhered to myself.

Finally, once the whole family had expressed their opinion in the matter, I took things in my own bare hands. The solution was simple: I pushed the armchair, not-rat underneath, towards the door, as far as I could. This is a massive armchair, yet easy to move. In my mind I thanked the non-rat for having chosen that piece of furniture to hide underneath, and asked her to now please leave the site. Once the armchair hit the threshold, I lifted it sideways and ascertained the absence of animal underneath. By which evidence concluded optimistically that she had chosen the way to freedom rather than the warmth and wealth of nooks and crannies, as well as the affluence of prey offered by the house.

Which prey, I learned fortunately after, must have been mice, since this not-rat was definitely a weasel or rather ermine. The picture on google corresponded perfectly to my own consideration of the enemy's features. This fearless, devoid of principle carnivore, will eat half his, and two thirds her weight, lest they perish by means of mercilessly high metabolism. They will, therefore, eat all that which crosses their path, up to the size of a rabbit, that is, the very size of Alice, who is a tiny cat. Apparently their pleasure is largely that of clean killing, by way of the neck, and this does not always correlate with hunger. A vampire, one could say, who makes her bed in the burrow of the victim, bed linens out of the fur of that same unfortunate creature.

The house got back to its usual calm, all concerned resuming their violently interrupted sleep. We promised once again to seek those access points whereby all manner of unwanted visitors periodically enter the house. In spite of knowing very well that vampires do not need a door or a window to penetrate your sleep, but simply the recollection of fabulous stories, like those of Sir Conan Doyle.