Thaw

The day before yesterday, the little one stormed into the hatch growling...

I immediately knew what was up, even though she trotted mysteriously through the hallway, into the living, and under the table.

The Pieps also instantly awoke: a rat.

They already had all sorts of plans for the rat, but I’m having none of those.

The murder is where the fun ends. From this point on, there’s no more ping-ponging, squashing, digging, gnawing, dragging, nibbling and dissecting to one’s heart’s content.

I immediately come with the broom and dustpan and sweep the deceased as respectfully as possible (and as much as possible in one piece) onto the dustpan - which is also called that when there’s no flock of dust and nothing is cooking. In reality, it is more of a catchment tray.

Because women after the menopausal transition can no longer be morally dissuaded from murder, I buried the two previous victims among the bulbs of the Spanish hyacinths, on the other side of the garden path from where Teiglin, the Woolis and two of Delphi’s kittens are buried. I prefer to keep the species separate even after death.

But when I stood outside in the dark winter night, with the rat on the plastic tray, there was a thick layer of snow everywhere, which had just started to freeze up firmly.

Not knowing what to do, and with a queasy feeling in my stomach, I parked the plastic tray on the table, between the kitchen door and the iron waste bin. Maybe I could bury him the next morning.

But the next morning was so cold that wisps of steam curled from the cats’ nostrils. Moreover, a thick blanket of fresh snow had descended on the plastic tray and the rest of the garden.

Because it was such a gruesome thought that the rat was still lying underneath, I ended up deciding to throw him in the rubbish after all. Disrespectful it was, but would he or anyone else besides myself, ever notice?

The lid of the dustbin was hidden under a thick layer of snow, but it nevertheless stayed in place when I lifted it. I slid the tray between the lid and the bin, turned it over, tapped the handle of the tray on the edge of the bin a few times, while listening in and feeling the weight, to see if he had fallen in.

The tray felt only slightly lighter.

How much does a rat weigh anyway?

I slid the still upside down tray from under the lid, and peeked into the bin. Empty milk cartons, yoghurt jars, a plastic pot that had housed a dried-up coriander plant, the plastic bag from a bunch of celery, a few snowflakes.

No rat.

I dropped the lid and peered cautiously under the upside-down plastic tray, then turned the top back up. A frozen rat lay motionless against the raised edge. A glazed eye squinted dazedly above two yellowed front teeth. The tiny pink feet and hands looked so freezing cold that the thought of doll’s socks came to my mind. The fur was caked with snow and ice.

All the life had left this little critter, there was nothing animate about it now, and yet, even with the best intent, I couldn’t find anything gross or creepy about it.

I saw what, in my language, is so beautifully called “stoffelijk overschotje”, material remnants, of a creature that had lived. A very own, quick-witted, sovereign and unique little life, that in one well-aimed chomp from my Dymphi, was sent to the other world. Hopefully a better one than this.

I left Memento Mori on the tray, on the table, stamped the snow off my boots, closed the kitchen door behind me and washed my hands. It is at moments like these that I most hate living alone.

Yesterday, it was thawing cats and dogs. Within a few hours, all the whiteness and cold had gone, and everything had been restored to colour and a wet haze.

The rat too.

He now looked as if he had been for a long stroll in the lashing rain.

I walked over to the Spanish hyacinths, whose confused shoots were already peeping up above the ground. No pun intended.

With the broken spade, I swept some leaves aside and tested the firmness of the soil. The spade slid in like a hot knife into butter.

I dug one single, deep trench in the earth and stuck the spade behind the mound like a temporary sheet pile wall. The hole was beautifully clean and just the right size and depth for Rat.

“Rest in peace, dear little critter, and may your pointy little soul wander merrily through the garden. Sniffing, scratching and scurrying about, for your own pure, curious pleasure.

And may some leaves flutter up when you come scurrying by, and may Dymphi jump into the leaves in vain, trample them with her hind legs and then jump out again. And may you scurry and dash, right across, through, and over her, going completely your own merry rat’s way.

Just leave your little body here, you’ll have no more need for that now. You must have been a sweetie, I’m sure of it. Rest in peace, darling Rat.”

I pulled the spade out of the ground and the mound of earth rolled like a little brown blanket over the rat’s deserted body. I pulled it a bit more over him and scraped some soft brown magnolia leaves over it.

The kitchen door creaked, or so it seemed. But it was Dymphi’s meow, who always had a knack for impersonating creaking doors. She wriggled around my legs and then hopped ahead of me into the house. She even had coffee waiting.