Just have one tale of a tail and neither is a big one too.
This was around 2004 when we were staying at Borivali on the fourth floor and our son was quite fresh out of hospital. The neighbors seem to be having this problem and called in a Terminator thanks to whom, one sneaked from the outer wall, digested all what he had been fed and decided to make our home his too. Maybe the Terminator hadn't done his job honestly and may have signed off with "I will be back".
Now the way my wife normally behaves with me is enough to convince each and everyone what a Rani of Jhansi she is... but for this guy who had the temerity to take a walk every now and then right in front of her whenever she would be in the kitchen. And that's when the "Parivartan" would take place.
The way my wife kept screaming was enough to tune in the population of over 18 lakhs of Borivali residents to the locale of this particular "beacon", so much so that one of our over inquisitive neighbors asked me one of the mornings if we had a tiff and I slapped her around !!!
That was it - the "Man" in me was awakened (something like "Jaag uthaa insaan") and He scored over the scientist within who said, "What I don't see, I don't believe exists". So we first set up some rat cake which sorta guaranteed in its advertisement that the rat would eat it and go out of the house to die !
Till this point I still hadn't had the darshan of this heroic rat who made my wife scream. But now I had seen one bit of cake "disappear" and the other gnawed at and having changed its place. Yet my wife screamed from time to time and even if I did a Jesse Owens to the kitchen, I still did not get any glimpse. And so about 10 days passed.
Finally, one evening on the way back I got one of those shoe-box style trap and baited it with "sukha bombil" - dried Bombay Duck fish. Within a hour or so, we heard the trap sprung shut and there he was - absolutely not sure if he had done the right thing by nibbling the fish. Nothing sinister about him - quite a small chap really. In fact he seemed to look at me with frightened puppy eyes telepathically transmitting, "I did you a pile of favors and now what are you going to do to me ?" I slowly pressed open the trap door - partially and my friend even in that constricted space managed to turn around - a true Mumbaikar rat, I must say !
He popped his head out a bit and I brought the door down on him again, thus holding his head out but body in. Now I asked my wife for the hammer. "Why?" - prompt came her Qn. "Just gimme the hammer" - I was feeling a bit guilty for holding the dude in this suffocating manner. "Not till you tell me why !" - well, she had to put in her thoughts! Now I was darn too sure that even my daughter who was three years old then would have known that I wasn't exactly planning on building a sofa set. So I simply picked the box with its tenant and kept it on the kitchen platform, picked up the marble pestle out of marble mortar and did what I had to do.
Next I grabbed a sheet of newspaper, packed the guy nicely in it and packed the whole paper parcel in a polythene bag, knotted it and put it in the garbage can for an early morning dispatch the next day. I washed the pestle and the platform with water and disinfectant and then my own hands with Dettol and soap and water. By the time I was all done, I turned to my wife hoping for some look of approval and score a few brownie points.
Instead, she had that look as if she just realized she was in fact Mrs. Jack, the Ripper.
"That (pestle-mortar) was given to me by my Mom when she returned from Mt. Abu trip. Now I have to throw it out." - tumbled out the words finally.
"Why?" - I blurted and the look on her face made me realize that it was going to be another dry night. Well... the trap had already sprung.
The shoe-box trap has been left rusting ever since, in our loft(s).