It was definitely in the rats' best interests to keep to their runs
> inside the wall, since the framing at the peak of the roof was a favored
perch
> of a Great Horned Owl and her babies.
>
>  my beady eyed little rodent buddies

One young summer while sitting on a fire lookout in Northern British
Columbia (and restoring it to its former architectural grandure - which is
the link with this list), my wife and I experienced a pack rat daily in two
ways.   1) face to face each time we opened the crawl space door to get at
our little fridge tucked in there to help keep it cool  -  and his bright
little eyes ALWAYS there staring at us whenever the door was opened, and 2)
when getting up in the morning and stepping out for a first breath of clear
clean mountain air and stepping on a little collection of dew-wet pack rat
droppings on the door mat  -  every darn day !

Well, finally enough was enough.   My wife's screams every time the fridge
was accessed, and my morning solitude so constantly soiled with toe jam rat
shit, combined to put me over the pacifist brink.   I primed myself with a
nice rock, went to the crawl space door, suddenly opened it and dynamited
the rock right to where I knew he would be standing, and he was, and I
nailed him  -  blind shot in the dark, perfect intuition !   But, after
laying there a minute, he got up and ran away.  We didn't see him again that
day.   I thought I must have fatally injured him and felt all mixed up
inside about Karma and rat shit.

Next morning, at sunrise, laying neatly on the familiar door mat was a tidy
little handful of green grass blades, all lined up very neatly side by side,
along with a fist sized lump of old concrete.   The only way to the door
step was up a long flight of open stairs, so the little critter had some
serious engineering to do to get the concrete up there.   The gift on the
mat was amazingly beautiful and curious.   Hard & soft, organic & mineral,
vegetarian & armament.   It was like a Peace Offering, a carefully
considered work of art put there for me to think about in place of the wet
rat poops that had been so offending to my bare morning feet.

Later that day the rat reappeared in a corner of the woodshed I didn't use
much, and I agreed with him never again to cross the line of passive
resistance I preferred to practice.   We lived in harmony all the rest of
the summer, smiling at each other from time to time across the chopping
block.   He never soiled my tools, firewood or kindling!

c. in bc