The Southwest Voice

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Day Two

I would like to think that I’m fairly well-read, that I know at least a little about many subjects, but it turns out that I am ignorant about rats. 

I’m ignorant about rats and about people named Mona.

When daylight broke and shed light over the backyard battlefield, I expected to see the little vagrants again. They would be fat and tired from their all-night feast, sluggishly draped over fences, trying to sleep off Puppy Chow hangovers. Like Templeton (of "Charlotte’s Web" fame), I pictured them engorged and unable to drag themselves to their nests; they would be easy to conquer while so incapacitated by their gluttony.

But this wasn’t Charlotte’s Web, and these rats weren’t living in Mr. Zuckerman’s barn. By the light of day, they were gone. Had they taken to their enemy camp?

I was naïve enough to consider that we may have killed them all in one night.

The next two nights proved me wrong. The rats were multiplying, and their will was insurmountable. The BB guns were a loud and unreliable method to eliminate the rats. Despite the courage of this story’s previously mentioned half-dressed heroes, my men were outmatched against the rats’ speed and agility at night.

It was time to call in reinforcements. We needed a hired gun.

I called the Kern County Mosquito and Vector Control District, where I planned to deliver a detailed description of our experience, because I was sure I was heralding the next Black Death.

“WE HAVE RATS!” I blurted when a voice answered my telephone call.

Unruffled by my outburst, the pleasant voice asked my name and number and explained that the technician was out making calls.

“Mona will get back with you later today.”

“Who?” I asked, though my ears were working fine.

“Mona. She handles the rats.”

As I hung up the phone, I tried to shrug off my initial visual of a rat technician named Mona. Mona? That isn’t the name of a person who kills rats; that is the name of a belly dancer or a flight attendant. People who eliminate rats, who control vectors, those are people of strong stuff, people with names that mean business, like Chuck Norris. Chuck Norris could take care of your rat problem. Rats are Chuck Norris’ middle name. But Mona? Mona has flowing long hair and belongs on the cover of a romance novel.

Mona isn’t a name you hear often, so when you do hear it, it conjures images.  

In the few days spent waiting for my appointment, I had time to imagine what sort of woman would single-handedly abate mosquitoes and purge vectors for a living. She had to be tough. I started thinking of this Mona as a Helga: a giant, man-like, Swedish lumberjack — large boned and brawny enough to scare the rats stiff by popping her meaty knuckles and laughing maniacally. That’s the type of woman who wouldn’t be frightened by the sight of rats; the rats would be frightened by her. 

Of course, the sweeping stereotype of women named Helga adds insult to my ignorance.

Mona Lee arrived on a Wednesday, and I was so relieved that I nearly hugged her. She was my General MacArthur, and I was a battle-scarred soldier. She would lead the war from here.

I opened the front door, and Mona introduced herself with a pleasant smile that seemed to say, “The cavalry has arrived.”  

As we walked to the backyard, I realized two things. One, I hadn’t been entirely wrong about women named Mona; but two, I was completely wrong about women who control rats for a living.

This Mona was lovely. Dressed in her county uniform and a wide-brimmed straw hat, she looked as relaxed and pleasant as a sun worshipper at Pismo Beach. She wasn’t big or brawny; at 5’4” and 100 pounds sopping wet, she looked more like a belly dancer with her long red hair and bright smile.  

Mona scrutinized my back yard with the confidence of a general assessing her troops. As I explained the invasion, she treated my concerns as blithely as if I had asked her which shoes matched my new outfit. She would set a “station” and return to check it once a week.

“That’s all?” I was shocked that it could be so easy.

“Well,” she answered, “you have to raise the wood pile and remove the dog’s food dish at night, too.”

That was all. The rats would nibble the bait and eventually not wake up.

Mona set the bait station on the fence, handed me some reading material, and flitted off to make her next call. She was pleasant and efficient. She was like “Vector Control Barbie” with her plucky straw hat and county uniform.  

No, she was more like Rat Woman, the superhero.

It turns out that she is, indeed, Rat Woman. In fact, Mona is one of three Rat Ladies (as they affectionately refer to themselves) who operate from the county’s Allen Road office. They are a jovial trio, who I discovered love their jobs so much that they plan on working there until they have to be physically removed.

“I’ll be here with my walker,” Mona joked, the day I met with her to take the photos.

I learned that Mona is the foreman of the group, having 15 years of service to her credit. She loves her job and can’t imagine working anywhere else. 

Well, almost anywhere else. It turns out that Mona is also a belly dancer in her spare time.

A belly dancer. I guess I’m not entirely ignorant after all.