Feeding the Enemy

In the summer of 2020, I made a conscious decision to feed oranges to the neighborhood roof rats. I should probably mention right up front that this may be how I ended up with rats in my attic. Actions have consequences, and mine were loaded with vitamin C.

In my defense, it was 118 degrees all week, and they were just trying to survive. Aren’t we all? Phoenix summers have a way of softening my moral resolve. By the time August hits, I stop asking, “What’s happening this weekend?” and start asking, “Is it happening inside? And “Who cares, anyway?”

Also by August, the orange trees in my yard don’t have much fruit left on them, and the blackened orbs that do remain are shriveled into petrified stones. (This will be relevant later.)

Now, I’ve lived in this house for seven years, and I’ve never actually seen any rats, just the aftermath of them. Most mornings, under my orange trees, I find debris from rodent happy hour the night before—newly scattered hollowed-out rinds strewn across the rocks interspersed with tiny black rat droppings.

Back in 2020, I didn’t feel particularly threatened by the rats—and to be honest, I still don’t. That summer, the city was basically on fire. We’d had zero rain for months. People were noticing insects pouring into their homes, and the local news reported it was because even the bugs were trying to escape the heat. It was that bad.

I’m not especially sympathetic to insects. But furry creatures with tiny whiskers? That’s a different story. The poor little heat-stroked scavengers had found their version of a Vegas buffet in my yard, and if they wanted a few desiccated oranges from my trees, I wasn’t going to begrudge them.

Commander Gander and I disagree about the rats. Retired Navy. Lives directly behind me. We share a common block wall. He keeps binoculars within reach and has a 'special rock'—his term, not mine—in his backyard that he stands on so he can see directly into mine.

He has very strong feelings about my yard maintenance and lectures me regularly about the risks of roof rats. Ambushes me, really. It’s the same dialogue every time.

“It’s April, and uh, I noticed you still have a lot of oranges left on your trees. You’re gonna want to pick them. The roof rats . . . ”

And, “It's late May, and uh, I noticed you still have a lot of oranges left on your trees . . .”

He says it like I don’t know. Like I need help connecting cause and effect. The lectures went on for a few years, until finally, in 2022, I caved. I'd been hearing noises above my chair in the living room for about a week, but I figured if I pretended like they didn't exist, well then . . . they wouldn't exist. Except, early one morning, I thought I smelled burning wires.

I bolted out of bed with my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my head. I quickly determined nothing was smoldering. As I ate breakfast, I googled “attic+rats+chewing wires”. I immediately followed that search with “exterminator+near+me”.

Artie, the Exterminator was not what you’d call reassuring. He was the kind of guy who was polite but never smiled, and clearly thought I was wasting his time from the get-go. He tossed a couple of traps around my yard and through the attic, and then informed me I was probably just hearing a cat on the roof. Or leaves. Leaves. “Next time you hear the noises, go outside and look on the roof, you’ll probably see a cat up there.”

I told him I mostly heard the sounds during the day and it was usually quiet at night. He rolled his eyes and mansplained. “Rats are nocturnal. If they were in your attic, you’d hear them at night.”

Condescending bastard. Now I was pissed. I said, “Yes. They’re nocturnal, which means they’re out foraging at night. They’re gorging themselves on my oranges, Artie. Go outside and see for yourself–they’ve left a crime scene under the Arizona Sweet!”

He still didn’t believe me.

Two weeks later, I didn’t have any dead rats in traps, but what I did have was a hole chewed into the wood where the cable wire entered the attic and the unmistakable sound of something running wind sprints above my bed at 6 a.m. I had nightmares of attic conflagrations featuring sniggering rodents holding Jiffy Pop wands.

I called Artie again. And again. I asked what type of bait he used. I asked if he had seen any signs of rats in the attic. “Peanut butter,” he said. And, “No. No signs.”

By the fourth visit, he was clearly done with me and my unreasonable expectation that $450 should actually produce results. He left without saying goodbye. In fact, he even left one of his traps behind, which was a gesture that felt more like a middle finger than a desperate act of escape.

So, that was the end of Artie and my $450. The rats, however, remained—until I brought home the cats. Not to solve the rat problem. Just because the cats had to be removed from the street where they were living, and they had nowhere else to go. It hadn’t occurred to me that the rats would hear and smell the cats in the house. Within days of their arrival, the attic went quiet. Just like that.

In the end, Commander Gander didn’t bother to thank me for spending the money trying to eliminate the creatures he fears so much. I'm sure he thinks I got what I deserved. Maybe I did. I also suspect he sees my cats as another bio-hazard. To him, my entire yard is the Mekong. The trees? Strategic Enemy Supply Lines. The fence? A border he defends. The rock? A tactical advantage.

I don’t care. The rats are gone from my attic. Am I still feeding the enemy? Yeah. Now, every spring, I deliberately leave enough plump juicy oranges on my trees to keep the night crew fed well into July. In part because I feel sorry for them, and in part defiance because I know Commander Gander loses sleep over it.

People love to hate cats. They say they’re aloof. Use their yards as a litter box. Full of attitude. You know what else they are? Silent and efficient hunters. They didn’t overcharge me, mansplain, or leave behind a pile of cruel traps. They just did the job effortlessly.

I don’t need another lecture about citrus from a man standing on a rock. And I don’t need to be told I imagined something that turned out to be real.

These days, I sleep better—quiet attic, happy cats, and knowledge that my yard rats have full tummies.

Now the only thing chewing through something is me gnawing at Commander Gander’s nerves, one Arizona Sweet at a time.

Sometimes, the solution isn’t the complicated one, or the one that comes with a clipboard and a service charge.

Sometimes the fix is unexpected.

Sometimes it has whiskers and an attitude.