Under Attack

In the second year the rats got me. The first year it was the flies. Visions of freshly plucked garden salads built from starkly contrasting colours, collapsed into putrid, rotting, festering blobs; thanks fruit fly. Then in the late summer the powdery mildew moved in to support the caterpillars in a triple entente with the snails who were already squatting rent-free.

The vegetable patch carnage in Season One encouraged me to get proactive in Season Two. I set fly traps and the enemy had not been sighted. My tomatoes were flourishing and their vines groaning under the weight of fruit. A recent change from green to pink indicated the first harvest was imminent.

But on my stroll around the grounds (total land mass 220sqm) one late-spring morning I almost burst into tears on sighting my tomatoes. There lay shredded remnants of future salads. Huge teeth had hacked juicy flesh, the remaining tomato tops clinging to the vine now ornamented with a faecal deposit, a farewell “up yours” from their assailant. The size of the dental work indicated only one thing – rats.

Praying this was an isolated incident I followed my usual plan and did nothing. But after days of crippling attacks I eventually mobilized, and out of desperation I phoned my council for advice. I spoke with someone called Brian who was useless. It was clear from the tone of his voice that he was wearing a beige cardigan. So like any city farmer toiling in a 1.5m x 8.5m plot, I marched right inside and consulted the internet for answers. Google offered nothing of substance and a lot of ads, so in my weakened state I phoned a professional. It took two of them to bait the property, although the second may have been there just to carry the bill.

This strategy proved not only expensive but tactically flawed. Each morning, incisors left their chilling calling card across Black Russians, Yellows, Grosse Lisse, Romas and what remained of the Beefsteaks. I was engaged in a battle of wits with a rat, and clearly the rodent had the upper hand. The “rat” (of which there were no doubt dozens) seemed to have prior experience handling these pest-control buffoons’ work. A child with a water gun would have been more effective. I imagined the rat chuckling as he merrily side stepped the poison stations and embarked on a nightly degustation. When palate-fatigue set in, he progressed to cucumber.

In the second season I invested in a shed – an inner-city Sydney shed measuring one human high and one obese person wide. By Christmas, the assembled vegetable protection arsenal made penetration of the shed’s 1m depth impossible. I deployed the weaponry, refused to give in, and slowly it seemed my fight-back was working. By the New Year, my salad dream was becoming reality. It appeared I’d made a small dent on the rodent population and had deployed bags around fruit as a second line of defence. I also found a spot to plant cherry tomatoes which grow quickly, are prolific fruit producers, and seemingly less appealing to rats.

Sadly, now that it is winter, the patch gets almost no sun, but it’s limping along and I still reap spring onions, salad greens, silver beet and spinach. My lemon tree around the corner has six, large, yellowing lemons.

My current crop is of no interest to prospective rodent customers but I sense their presence. In this tough agricultural caper you can never let your guard down and I’m using the off-season to prepare strategies for spring.

As the Queen Mother used to say, “The price of peace is eternal vigilance.”