The Furlong loft has been claimed by rats. Two rats that we know of. That means probably a Mommy rat and a Daddy rat.
At night, our loft is their ballroom. By day, they feed and drink at our bird feeder in the garden.
Mr Furlong has ascertained that they have not chewed any cables nor made homes in the spare duvets and curtains stored up there overhead. There are rat droppings. We wondered if there were squirrels in the loft by the sounds at night. Thumps, like acorns being dropped, and heavy bodies leaping made us think a small rat was not capable of such pandemonium.
But now we have seen them in our garden. And beautiful they are! Sleek, glossy, wiley, quick, sharp, stealing from our bird feeder. They are an entertainment.
They are very bold compared to their tiny cousins, our little Wood Mice.
The Furlong children owned rats as pets when they were growing up. I’ve always liked rats. What a pity that we now have to deal with these lovely creatures. They can’t go on living in OUR house in case they break our rules.
We do not poo everywhere. We do not chew our electrical wiring and most of all, we do not gnaw our duvets and curtains into nests for litters and litters of babies.
I’m warning you that a humane rat-trap is going to be set up in our loft.
So, you have to go, guys. Sorry. Toughies. Life is shit and then you die.
It snowed today. It’s bitterly cold.
The question is – how long will you last when we release you in a far flung foreign field, without the help of the Furlong bird food, and the warm comfort of our loft?
You can go quietly RIGHT NOW – or you can hang about and be left deserted, cold, confused, hungry and lonely in some owl, stoats or ferret’s hunting ground.