Galway Review 8 - April 2020

‘Rats are bastards, cunts a yokes,’ he said,
reaching into the cab of the tractor.
He had wrapped a piece of hairy bacon around the
tongue-like protrusion and showed me how to set and
release the spring loaded contraption.
‘Will he be dead?’ I asked.
‘Oh he’ll be dead, for sure and certain, dead as a
door nail.’
‘Will it be painful, cruel…?’
‘Ah for the love an honour a God a girleen, cruel
is it? To kill a bastard of a rat, a rat that would take the
eye out of your head, a rat that would go for your face if
you cornered him, rats piss can kill you stone dead, I
know all about them, the dirty bastards,’ he spat, ‘put it
down tonight and if you happen to hear it close, leave it
a few hours, then open the jaws with a spade or a
shovel and tip him into the stove when you’ve got a
lightning hot fire on.’
I set it on the hearthstone and at four in the
morning heard a dull thud and one helpless yelp. The
Labrador sank deeper into the warm space I left, the
cats were in the front room, the stove was stone-cold.
I pushed the trap gently with the sweeping
brush, across the tiled floor, onto the lino in the hall
towards the half door.
I decided it was a female.
She was intermittently still.
13