Woodrats are cuter rats than, say, a Norwegian rat.  They are smaller, have a brown coat, and aren’t slinky like their bigger, darker, more intimidating cousin. They are in a grouping called pack rats.  They build nests of sticks and debris and are attracted to small shiny objects like bottle caps, foil, and apparently moth balls.  

One summer while living in Arkansas we had Woodrats that had made their way into our attic.  You could hear them making their nighttime rounds as they scampered above our bedroom. 

Getting into our attic was like climbing an obstacle course turned vertically.  The entrance was a tight rectangle entered only first by climbing a ladder and contorting your body over a top closet shelf which could not hold the body weight of a halfling.  

I squeezed my way in and had my wife toss up a few Victors and peanut butter.  

After a few days of rambunctious mocking and no game, I had to regroup.  And fast.  My mother-in-law had come to town to watch our children for a week while my wife and I went out of town.  

“Throw some mothballs up there.  That will run them out.”  This was the advice of my wife’s mother.  I knew that mothballs were a claimed deterrent for some things (like moths), but rats?  The look on her face said that she was determined for me to do something about them before we left.  My wife’s face said the same.

In frustration I sucked in my gut, corkscrewed through the hole, had my wife toss up a box of mothballs, and proceeded to throw handfuls into every corner of the hotbox of an attic.  I emptied the entire box on them.  “That’ll do it,” I lied as I slapped my hands together for my mother-in-law’s comfort. 

I didn’t take time to think that I was actually unleashing the mothballs on us.  Upon our return from the week away, we entered the house to the smell of our grandparent’s wardrobe times ten.  

As my wife and I lay down that night, glad to be home and in our own bed, there was silence.  Silence until a Woodrat started playing hockey with a mothball.