Oh no, not a rat!

In my childhood I read, or had read to me, the story by Kenneth Grahame, 'Wind in the Willows', in which book creatures that we normally would have little to do with featured as the main characters.  Remnants of the story remain in my mind as a haze in the annals of time.  Mole, Badger and Ratty played out their lead roles in 'Wind in the Willows', and a charming tale it was.

Around 4.00am this morning another Ratty played a major role in a non-welcome event.  I awoke to a strange sound; the splashing of water.  Alerted to the unaccustomed sound I concentrated to discern its whereabouts.  Water running indoors should not occur, especially at that hour of the morning.  The noise appeared to  be coming from the bathroom.

Being of an extremely brave disposition I nudged Significant Other, silently wishing I didn't have to resort to screaming.  In his half awake state I whispered, "There is something in the toilet." 

A mumble was the reply, but not to be put off I persisted; his sleep broken I guess he decided he might as well waken properly and listen.  I repeated my statement.  For some reason the only reply I received was a half-hearted grunt that could have meant, 'I hear you', or even 'what to you expect me to do at this hour of the morning?'

More whispered consultation followed and he, being a big brave man, scrambled out of bed and grabbed a huge torch ... to see what was what?  Or a weapon?

Moments later I heard the lid of the toilet being put down.  He returned to bed, commenting, "There is a rat in the toilet". 

I do not like rats, outside, inside, and specificially not in the toilet bowl.  But at least the lid was down!  As I lay awake planning murder Significant Other rolled over and slept.   Sun-up at the moment is around 6.00am.  Significant Other rose, made a coffee and allowed me a blissful [? how much longer can that rat swim in a toilet bowl?] few moments before I decided I may as well get up, as that way the sloshing of Ratty in the toilet bowl was less evident.

We breakfasted.  I suggested a couple of rather barbarian ways to disuade Ratty [or to send him to a watery grave].  S.O. headed for the bathroom, armed with weapons.  He wasn't gone long; each swipe made at Ratty allowed Ratty the opportunity to attempt an escape up the handle of the 'drowning tool'.  S.O. was not amused and rallied the troops [me].  Well, in the interests of animal safety I will not divulge my method, suffice to say there is more than enough Scottish blood in my veins and memories of blood thirsty tales of pouring boiling oil on the 'invaders' of Scottish granite sanctums rose to the forefront.

Poor Ratty.  A big flush sent him on his way.  It is fervently wished that he, or his relatives, never return, though they are welcome to wander around the great outdoors [out of my sight] to their hearts content.