Getting rid of rabbit waste has always been a problem; I’m banned from one dump-it site, and need a permit to get into another, which during the winter months closes at 4 O’clock; this causes a problem, as it’s closed when I get home from work.

One weekend in March I missed closing time; it rained for a week and I had to take an Escort van full of wet sacks to the dump the following Saturday.  Whilst loading the sacks, I noticed I’d left a trail of wet shavings on the drive as some bags had developed  holes.

The site is only a few miles via a country lane to the site, but you often encounter walkers and cyclists and that day was no exception.  I slowed down to allow a couple of cold and wet walkers to cross the road; they were identically dressed in orange cagoules and woolly hats with thick socks and hiking boots. It was wet and windy day; the man was trying his best to read a torn wet map that was flapping around in his hands.  “Some people have strange pastimes,” I thought to myself.  The gentleman smiled and waved a thank you gesture, his horn rimmed glasses covered in raindrops, and his wife looking thoroughly miserable as she trudged three steps behind.

Whilst I’m still thinking about hikers and their insistence in having their weekend walk whatever the weather, I managed to hit a pot hole, which was so large it shook the whole van; the sacks in the back moved and I thought some of them were going to join me in the front seat.

At this point my warm dry van changed into a very unfriendly place; I heard an unusual sound I could not quite place, “Was that a scurry, or a scratching?”  The noise became irrelevant as a huge wet and slimy creature from hell leapt towards the light and landed on my shoulder, I turned and stared into its beady eyes, its grimacing mouth inches from my nose.

Time stood still…or so it seemed as I stamped on the brakes…. The rapid deceleration of the van caused the creature to fly through the gap on the steering wheel, between my clenched fists into the speedometer.  It hovered momentarily looking at me with anger in its eyes, as half a second passed I thought it was going to leap back and bite me, but its expression changed.  The van lurched to a halt and as it came to rest the creature lost its footing; its facial expression changed, a look of surprise, as it slipped head first, its hairless tail flicking in the air as it dropped down through my legs and into the foot well.

I jumped out shaking myself and stamping my feet; in the confusion I managed to convince myself the rat was in my boots.   The woolly hats and orange cagoules have now caught up bemused by the sight of 6 foot tall 22 stone man in rigger boots running down the country lane flapping his arms and stamping his feet!  The tall man is now wiping his spectacles on a wet handkerchief; this exhibition is worth a good look, he must have thought.

“Whatever’s the matter?”, he said in an accent I couldn’t place.  “A bloody rat in my van” I replied. “Where’s that come from?”  He says.  I quickly gathered composure; the bags with holes, the wet shavings, and the scratching noise.  A rat had taken up residence in the bottom of a bag, probably attracted by the bits of food in the litter.  This rat was huge, I’ve seen a few rats but this was an evil looking bruiser of a rat.

After a while, my heart rate had dropped to just below dangerously high! I thought the best course of action would be to open the doors and let it jump out.  I opened the doors, and waited for 10 minutes before poking a stick under the seat to make sure it was gone.  No sign so I carried on, I had been driving for no more than a minute, and just passed the hikers for the second time when I glanced down and saw the rat walking around the passenger seat.  For the second time that day I left black tyre lines on the road.  The hikers laughed.  Another 10 minutes wait, more poking with a stick, nothing.  I drove on to the dump-it site, still clutching the stick, but there was no more sign of the rat.  When I returned home I left the doors open for a few hours, and cleared all the rubbish out I could find, but no trace was found.

Monday morning arrived, and I was off to work early trying to beat the traffic, I had just reversed out of the drive when I noticed a fresh pair of rat raisins left on the dashboard, on the top of the speedometer.  This calling card declared in Rat language that it had claimed my van for its home.  That morning I borrowed my wife’s car.   On the way home that night I called at B&Q to purchase rattraps.  My wife had convinced me a humane trap was better, if a rat fails to die in a normal trap, it could crawl away and die under the dash!  I set the trap, baited it with chocolate; and waited with enthusiasm to see what would happen.

The following morning I checked, and to my dismay the chocolate had disappeared and the trap was empty.  It was at this point that the soundproofing material from inside the van started to appear in the foot wells along with little bits of wire that must have been in its way. The trim on the doors had partially been eaten, and bits of foam from the seats started to appear.  After two days, the large traps came out!  Tested with a garden cane they broke the tip of the cane.  This would do the trick or there was going to be no van left at this point.  The traps had only been set a few minutes, when I went out to check, I saw one of the traps had snapped shut, the chocolate was gone; at this point I saw the rat dash out from under the dashboard, and straight into the second trap,  the rat and trap rolled over, it disappeared under the seat.

Ian, one of the builders next door heard my celebratory cry and came to see the rat, I went in the house to get the van keys.

I opened the door and fished the trap out from under the seat with a bit of 2” X 2” wood – the trap was still empty!  It  had managed to escape.

I pulled the seat back, no rat, no blood and no trace.  Ian flicked the catch of the glove box with the stick, the door dropped open, and several pieces of chocolate, a mound of soundproofing, and several bits of wire dropped onto the floor.  It had started nesting in the glove box, chewing an access from the inside of the dashboard.  All traps were reset and I went to work in my wife’s car yet again.

Later that day, my wife rang me at work to inform me the humane trap had caught the rat, and she was going to let it go.  I told her not to as I wanted to “see” what had caused so much damage. “Put it in the outside toilet for me I’ll get rid of it later”.

“Shall I give it anything?” she asked.  “Yeah, give it an aspirin it’s going to get a headache” I replied.

I returned home and went to look.  I had to do a double take.  Rachel had put a ‘classic’ water bottle on the trap, and dropped guinea pig food in through the top, the rat had cleaned itself and appeared quite content.  It was a huge female rat, it was much bigger than I had remembered, about 8 inches long.

At the insistence of Rachel, I released it into the field nearby, and it lived to eat someone else’s van!