Truth About Rats and Dogs

by Jacqueline Pearce

  The Truth About

  Rats

  (and Dogs)

  Jacqueline Pearce

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Copyright © 2006 Jacqueline Pearce

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Pearce, Jacqueline, 1962-

  The truth about rats (and dogs) / Jacqueline Pearce.

  ISBN 1-55143-473-3

  I. Title.

  PS8581.E26T78 2006 jC813’.6 C2006-903255-6

  First published in the United States, 2006

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2006928466

  Summary: Conner’s family has a no-pets rule, but Oscar the rat needs a home.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its

  publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of

  Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and the Canada

  Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the

  BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover design and typesetting by Doug McCaffry

  Cover illustration by Susan Reilly

  Orca Book Publishers

  Box 5626, Stn. B

  Victoria, BC Canada

  V8R 6S4

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 468

  Custer, WA USA

  98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  Printed and bound in Canada

  09 08 07 06 • 4 3 2 1

  For all kids who love animals

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank my friends Yee Tse and Annette Fung for sharing with me their families’ experiences of Chinese New Year, and Mr. and Mrs. Tse for treating me to lunch and answering my many questions. Thank you to Gord Hobbis and Jordan Masse of Cap’s Bicycle Shop in New Westminster/Sapperton for sharing their expertise on BMX bikes and stunts; Rebecca Chen and Olga Stancovick for their help with piano info; Randy Celinski of AAA Wildlife for his insights on wild rats and methods for dealing with them; my mom, Rochelle Pearce (former nurse and recent patient), for answering medical questions; the BC SPCA Animal Learning Centre for lending me Oscar; Alley Allen for showing me the small-animal room at the BC SPCA’s Vancouver shelter; and all the other friends (especially the Nelson School playground moms) who answered my various queries and offered encouragement and support.

  Contents

  Chapter 1 Torture

  Chapter 2 Invader

  Chapter 3 The Right Dog

  Chapter 4 School

  Chapter 5 Disappointment

  Chapter 6 Trapped

  Chapter 7 Snow

  Chapter 8 Volunteers

  Chapter 9 Oscar

  Chapter 10 Announcement

  Chapter 11 Close Call

  Chapter 12 The Truth About Rats

  Chapter 13 Jake

  Chapter 14 Rat Problem

  Chapter 15 Caught

  Chapter 16 Jenna Surprises

  Chapter 17 Verdict

  Chapter 18 Expectations

  Chapter 19 Chinese New Year

  Chapter 20 I Hate Piano!

  Chapter 21 Complication

  Chapter 22 Release

  Chapter 23 Sharing Oscar

  Chapter 24 Last Days

  Chapter 25 Return to the Shelter

  Torture

  My fingers stumbled along the keys. Every day I started piano practice with scales. Every Saturday I started piano lessons with scales. The plunk of the keys was beginning to feel like Chinese water torture, each note a painful drip. Is that a real thing? Chinese water torture, I mean. Or is it one of those weird ideas Western people have about Chinese people? I’ll have to ask my dad.

  C D E F G A B C.

  Chinese piano torture is definitely real. When you are half Chinese, people seem to expect the Chinese half to make you good at piano or violin or math. It doesn’t help when your older sister is good at everything.

  “Conner, are you paying attention?”

  Miss Remple, my piano teacher, stood behind my right shoulder, looming over me like a police interrogator getting ready to squeeze a confession out of her prisoner. Except her voice was a little too high-pitched for the mean cop role, and she sounded more exasperated than threatening.

  “Watch your fingering,” she warned.

  I tried to focus more carefully on what my fingers were doing to the piano keys, and I felt Miss Remple relax slightly behind me. At the end of the scale the notes died away, and Miss Remple took a sip of coffee from the mug she always held throughout the lesson. For a second, the sound of her swallowing was the only noise in the room. I repressed a shiver. I hated that sound. She obviously had no idea how unnerving it was. How was anyone supposed to concentrate with that gurgly swallowing sound right behind their ear? Every time I heard her swallow, it was as if that sound in her throat was saying, Your playing stinks!

  “Now, let’s hear how you’re doing with the minuet,” Miss Remple said.

  The minuet. My parents were so thrilled that I was learning a Mozart minuet. I guess they thought it meant I was actually progressing. My sister, Jenna, said it was an easy piece to play, but I didn’t seem to be able to get it right.

  I fumbled with the pages of the music book on the ledge above the piano keys, wishing I could stop feeling nervous. It was so stupid. I played for Miss Remple every weekend. Why didn’t it get any easier?

  “There you go.” Miss Remple reached across and stuck a finger on the page before I could flip past the minuet.

  Her sleeve brushed my shoulder, and the smell of perfume and coffee breath made me queasy. I turned aside to sneak a breath of fresher air. Was the room getting smaller? The walls seemed closer, like I really was locked inside a tiny windowless interrogation room.

  Okay, stop fooling around. Just get it over with. I took a few extra seconds finding the first notes on the page and settling my hands over the keys. Miss Remple sighed and took another sip of coffee. Quickly, I began to play, figuring I could at least drown out the gurgling swallow.

  “That wasn’t too bad,” Miss Remple said as I finished the piece. I could tell she was trying to sound encouraging because that was how piano teachers were supposed to sound or all their students would just give up.

  “You’ve pretty much got the notes down,” she continued.

  Finally, I thought. I’d only practiced the thing every day for two weeks.

  “Now you need to work on expression,” she added.

  I groaned inwardly.

  Expression? I didn’t even like Mozart. I didn’t even like classical music. How was I supposed to put expression into it when I didn’t even like piano? But then, nobody cared how I felt about things anyway.

  Finally the lesson ended and I was released. Outside, I took in a deep breath of cool January air and freedom, pulled my bike helmet on and jumped on my bike. I cranked hard on the pedals, trying to get as much distance as possible, as quickly as possible, between me and piano lessons. After picking up some speed, I glided for a while, scoping the street for a clear driveway and a high curb. There, up ahead. The spot where the curb sloped down to the driveway entrance made a perfect ramp. I veered into the driveway, rode up the curb and launched into the air.

  Sweet!

  I was airborne for only a few seconds, but for those seconds I was free. It was so good to be out of that stuffy piano ro
om. For the rest of the day I could do whatever I wanted. Probably after lunch I’d meet my friend Jake and we’d work on some bike tricks. There was a flatland BMX competition coming up next month that we thought we might enter. Or maybe we’d try our bikes on the quarter pipe at the new skateboard park.

  It was only a few blocks from Miss Remple’s house to mine and not long before I was pulling into our driveway.

  My plan was to park my bike in the backyard and head inside for a quick lunch. I braked at the back gate. As I pushed it open, I heard a scream.

  Invader

  The scream—well, maybe it was more of a screech—was followed by an angry voice that sounded like my mom’s. Had she been the one screaming? I had a vision of a burglar sneaking into the back of the house and attacking her. The vision quickly shifted to an image of my mother attacking the burglar, as I heard another yell, followed by a crash. Not sure what to expect, I dropped my bike and rushed through the gate into the backyard.

  I rounded the corner of the house just in time to see Mom smash a broom down on the lid of the garbage can that sat beside the back steps. There was no sign of a burglar.

  “Mom, are you okay?”

  Her short dark-blond hair, which was normally very neat and stylish, was a little wild, and there was a grim expression on her face, but otherwise she didn’t look like she’d been attacked.

  “Stay back!” she warned me, and the look on her face made me take a step backward.

  “Why? What’s going on?” I asked, glancing quickly around the yard. Maybe there really was a burglar.

  Mom’s eyes darted back to the garbage can. She swung the broom and thumped the side of the can.What was she doing? My mind jumped to visions of robotic garbage cans trying to climb the stairs to the house.

  “Is it gone?” Mom asked.

  “Is what gone?” I still had no idea what was wrong.

  “The rat!” she screeched, her voice rising at least one octave higher than usual (octaves are one thing I did learn about at piano lessons).

  I looked around the garbage can and under the stairs, half expecting to see a large brown rat with long yellow teeth and beady evil eyes crouching and glaring at me.

  But there was nothing there.

  “I don’t see anything,” I said. “You must have scared it away.”

  “Are you sure?” Mom asked. Then she blocked me with the broom. “Don’t get too close,” she warned again. “Rats carry disease, and they can bite.”

  I rolled my eyes. Anything that threatened to bring dirt or germs anywhere near my mom or her kitchen was definitely risking its life, and judging by how fast she had wielded that broom, it didn’t have much chance of getting near me, either. Still, I didn’t feel inclined to take any chances, so I kept my distance.

  “Are you sure it was a rat,” I asked, “and not the neighbor’s cat?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” Mom snapped, but she lowered the broom.

  “Look,” she said, pointing to the garbage can lid.

  Despite the battering taken by the garbage can, two small black droppings remained on the green plastic lid. They definitely hadn’t been left by the neighbor’s cat.

  “Don’t touch it!” Mom yelled as I took a step closer.

  The panic in her voice startled me and made me jump back.

  “I wasn’t going to touch it!” Geesh! What did she think I was? An idiot?

  “Sorry,” she said with a grimace. “I don’t like the idea of having a rat around, spreading germs so close to the house…And what if there’s more than one?”

  I suppressed a shudder as I imagined a dark wave of rats sweeping over our garbage can and up the stairs to the house. I’d seen a picture like that in a book about the Middle Ages and the Plague.

  “Come on,” Mom said, starting up the stairs. “Let’s go in for lunch. There’s nothing else we can do right now. I’ll call your dad and ask him to pick up a rat trap on his way home.”

  “I’ll be right there,” I called after her. “I just have to bring in my bike.”

  I went back to the gate and wheeled my bike into the yard. Were rats really that bad? I was sure Dad didn’t know any more about catching rats than Mom did. An idea flared in my head. There were dogs that were bred to catch rats, weren’t there?

  I hadn’t worked on my parents about getting a dog for almost a year now. No pets! they always said, even though I’d wanted a dog more than anything ever since I was little. I’d even promised to practice the piano harder if they’d let me get a dog, but they wouldn’t go for it. The rat angle was new, though. Maybe it was worth a try.

  I leaned my bike against the stairs and ran up the steps, taking them two at a time. What was the name of that rat-catching dog? I was sure I’d read about it in my dog book.

  “Take your shoes off,” Mom said as I came through the back door, even though I was already doing just that.

  I shucked off my runners without undoing the laces and left them on the mat by the door, then hung up my jacket on the wall hook.

  “Make sure you wash your hands really well before you touch anything,” Mom added predictably.

  She stood at the counter with her back to me, so she couldn’t see the face I made. Even if there hadn’t been a rat infesting the yard with germs, she would still have reminded me to wash my hands. She’s never figured out that I always wash without her asking, and I always take my shoes off when I come inside. She’ll probably phone and remind me when I’m old and living on my own.

  I caught myself before saying anything that might sound rude, remembering that, if anything, I should be trying to butter her up.

  “Okay, Mom,” I said cheerfully as I headed down the hall to the washroom.

  The Right Dog

  After I’d washed my hands, I ducked into my room and pulled The Complete Guide to Dogs off the bookshelf over my desk. The large heavy hardcover felt solid and satisfying in my hands. I opened it at random. The chapter heading was Working Dogs. There was a photograph of a large dog, mostly black, with a white chest and some brown on its legs and face. The caption beside the dog was “Bernese mountain dog.” It looked like a nice dog, but it was large, and I was sure the rat-catching dog I’d read about had been small enough to go down holes after its prey. I flipped through the pages, looking for smaller dogs. I stopped at dachshund in the Hounds section. That one looked promising.

  “Dachs” is badger in German, and this dog was used for flushing badgers out of their setts.

  I assumed that setts meant burrows, but it wasn’t the right dog either. I didn’t really like the look of the dachshund anyway. Too much like a giant wiener. I flipped through the rest of the Hounds section and moved on to the Gun Dogs. There sure seemed to be a lot of dogs bred to help with hunting. But I guessed hunting was what people depended on for survival in the old days. I paused at the Labrador retriever, which was one of my favorite dogs.

  A chocolate Lab, that’s what I really wanted. I imagined myself running across the field at my school, a big brown dog running beside me. I’d throw a stick or a ball and the dog would run to get it.

  “Conner, are you coming for lunch?” Mom’s voice cut through my daydream.

  “In a minute!” I called back.

  I flipped through the book more quickly until I hit Terriers.

  Originally bred to hunt rats and other vermin, they

  were developed to chase out quarry that had gone to

  ground, often by actually digging it out of burrows.

  That sounded right. But what kind of terrier? I read further.

  There was the Airedale terrier, the fox terrier, the bull terrier. When I got to the Jack Russell terrier, I stopped. That was it. That was the dog I’d been thinking of.

  I read on, learning a lot about Jack Russells before I came to anything about rats. What I found out was pretty gross.

  Jack Russells were often used in the sport of rat killing, which was popular in England in the early part of the twentieth century. T
he sport involved penning a large number of rats, then throwing in a dog to see how many rats the dog could kill and how quickly he could do it.

  People sure used to have weird ideas of entertainment. But the dog definitely sounded up to the task of ridding our backyard of one rat (at least I hoped there was just one).

  I brought the book out to the kitchen.

  “Listen to this, Mom.” I read out the part about the rats.

  “Please, Conner, not while we’re eating lunch,” Mom complained as she ladled steaming noodle soup into a bowl over the stovetop. There was a sandwich waiting at my place at the table.

  I slid into a chair, my eyes still on the book as Mom set the bowl of soup in front of me.

  “It says here that Jack Russells are very intelligent and attentive to their owners,” I continued.

  “They can be tough, determined, devoted, loyal.” I skipped the part about them being feisty and sometimes hard to manage.

  Mom sighed.

  “Conner, we’ve been through this before. We are not going to get a dog—or any other pet, for that matter.”

  “But a dog like the Jack Russell could keep the rats away.”

  “It’s just one rat,” Mom said sternly. “We’ll get a trap, and that will be that. Pets have germs, and you know how I feel about germs or pet hairs in my kitchen.”

  Disappointment and frustration expanded like a balloon in my chest. What had I been expecting, anyway? I’d tried all the arguments before. Why would this time be any different? Even if Mom didn’t run a catering business out of her kitchen, she’d still be a clean freak. But I couldn’t help trying one more time.

  “Jack Russells have short hair,” I pointed out. “They don’t shed much, and I could always . . .” My voice trailed off as Mom turned away, shaking her head.

  I glared at my soup in frustration. She wasn’t even listening to me.

  I heard Mom sigh.

  “Conner,” she began, her voice softer as she turned to face me again. I could tell she wanted me to understand her reasons and not be upset, but I didn’t look up. Before she could say any more, the front door opened and Jenna’s voice came from the front hall. She had one of her friends with her.