A rat died this weekend. He lay under our wooden table in the garden, eyes wide open, as if wondering what on earth had happened to him. When I wanted to discard him, I noticed his claws. Little hands, with fingers and nails. Admittedly a bit hairy, but when do you have a chance to see such small rat fists so close? And don’t they look very human?

Near the dead rat, the verbena was still blooming. A deep purple-blue color with tiny flowers grouped into rounded clusters. If only I could put such a small flower in his fists. Would that make death a little more beautiful? A tiny flower clutched in a tiny fist?

And so I spent fifteen minutes of my weekend with a dead rat, mini fists and purple flowers. The other rats did appreciate this goodbye to their buddy. They held a memorial gathering at the chicken feed later that evening. Nine pairs of fists feasting on grains left over. We have to intervene, there are too many now. But how?