TheBakersfieldCalifornian.com

Linda looked over my shoulder at the pomegranate tree as if she had spotted an enemy sniper with whom I ought to be concerned.

She was keen to such things. Linda was a field representative with Kern Mosquito and Vector Control, an organization that had a paramilitary feel to it.

"What are you looking at?" I said, trying to check the rising alarm in my voice.

Linda was a veteran of dealing with unwary (soft might be more accurate) homeowners who were blind to the problems her organization was charged with extinguishing.

"The rats are eating your pomegranates," she said.

"Rats," I said. "I assumed those were birds."

Linda looked at me as if the turnip truck that had deposited me on these grassy shores was still visible down the street.

"No, those are rats," she said firmly.

Linda used the word "periphery." She may even have said something about having to "secure the periphery." The front yard was part of the periphery. I was in periphery denial, and Linda knew it.

Linda handed me a small brown booklet titled RATS. The word RATS was in caps, probably 36-font size. On the cover was a sketch of a roof rat (Rattus rattus ) and the Norway rat (Rattus norvegicus ). On the back, the brochure stated, "Remember: The owner of property on which rats or rat harborage is found is responsible for the abatement and control of the problem."

"Harborage." I was like Pakistan. If you were bad, my door was open.

"You probably have rats in the bougainvillea on the garage," Linda said. "Yes, look at the pellets around the door."

This woman was a rat savant. She was like a leprechaun but instead of seeing buried treasure under every bush, she could sense a rat from 30 feet with her eyes closed.

There was no reason to hold anything back from Linda. If she had to, she would interrogate me and I would fold before she turned on the garden hose. I told her the bag of dog food in the garage had not helped matters and that when I realized I might have a problem, I emptied the dog food into a plastic 40-gallon trash can and put a plastic lid on it, secured by a round 10-pound weight.

Linda looked at the trash can as if it were made from Saran Wrap. She shook her head. I turned pink as a newborn Rattus rattus and, in her estimation, was as helpless as one.

"It won't be long before they chew that plastic," she said. "You need galvanized."

She was right. Plastic was flimsy. If I had any hope of stopping these rats I had to stop thinking like a civilian.

"I think they are coming from the house next door, specifically the orange tree," I said. "Then, they are running along the fence and heading west toward our house."

Linda looked at the fence, as if deep in tactical thought. I nodded but kept my own counsel. I could say something but it probably wouldn't help.

"I think we're going to put a bait station along the fence," she said, handing me a small metal box with a four-inch hole in it. "If they eat this, it will compromise their liver and they will bleed out."

I appreciated the use of the word "compromise." No use to alarm the homeowner. Linda did that when she used the phrase, "bleed out."

I asked Linda about traps and she handed me two large models. They looked big enough to incapacitate a bear. A rat that big could be frightening, even if it were dead.

Fifteen minutes later, Linda had fastened the bait station to the fence. Then she was off to the mountains for vacation. I don't suppose there were rats in the mountains, but if there were, Linda did not appear concerned.

These are the opinions of Herb Benham, not necessarily those of The Californian. Email him at hbenham@bakersfield.com