The Rat Pack

Opposite where I live is a cemetery. Its residents are for the most part quiet. They keep to themselves and don’t trouble me. Or my dogs. Nor do I trouble them. I do not venture over there at night to wake them. I do not invoke or insult them. And there is no intent on my part to instigate Satanist ceremonies and orgies. Indeed I doubt that Helensville harbours orgies of any sort anywhere. In fact, Helensville’s principal appeal may be that its cemetery is the liveliest place in town. It’s a quiet town. Quiet as the grave. Yet we learn today that we have reason to flee—a flea. It appears that the local rats of the rodent kind are carrying typhus carrying fleas. This does not come as welcome news, nor is there consolation in the hospital board’s less than comforting claim that “less than 2% of those who contract typhoid die from it.” We have all been instructed to be on the alert for rats and do all we can to eradicate them from the town. I will participate in that campaign with enthusiasm and vigour. I don’t like rats anyway. Nor fleas. But I do like life. I honour it and my life with my wife. And dogs. I have no intent to be among the 2% and join the folks across the road—nice as they are.

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