Rats are nocturnal creatures, regular participants in the District’s nightlife.
The Norway rat (Rattus norvegicus) is the sole species living in the District. It’s springtime in rat land, and life is good. But in a moment, the car is gone, and the rats return, seemingly worry-free. While others run for cover beneath the porch of a nearby house, an adult nimbly climbs a chain-link fence, its fleshy tail curling around the wires like a fifth paw. And whereas the younger generation has gotten a head start on the Sunday supper, the older rats seem unhurried-after all, there’s plenty to go around.Ī car turns into the alley, and the rats scatter. Compared with the youngsters, the adult rats look fat and ragged. In less than an hour, their parents arrive on the scene. Soon they are ripping through plastic, poking through Styrofoam, and gnawing through the cardboard that separates them from their bounty.
And they follow their twitching noses right to the mother lode. Despite their age and size, the adolescents have big appetites. The juveniles, which are the first ones to scamper out of their underground burrows, look like little brown mice. In an alley off Mount Pleasant Street NW, the day’s last rays of sun are accompanied by a gentle rustling-the sound of paws on plastic. For the District’s rodent population, the party is just getting started. On the eve of another workweek, everyone’s preparing to get a good night of sleep.Įveryone, that is, except the rats. In a Corona box alongside a trash can, globs of potato salad from a backyard barbecue sit on some squashed hot-dog buns.
A Styrofoam container spills some takeout fried rice onto the sidewalk. After numerous trips to the keg, a red plastic cup rolls around in a gutter. It’s a Sunday evening in May, and the detritus from an indulgent weekend lies scattered in the streets of D.C.
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