AN EPIC TAIL

Yeah, the one in my house lived in the kitchen, but not once did it make me breakfast. Humph.

First of all, my apologies for not writing sooner, and though, not an excuse for neglecting my writing duties, I did have a few issues that needed my attention and time was not allowing. Also, my mind was sort of elsewhere with said issues which I will be talking about on today’s post.

The last couple of weeks an unexpected guest was living in my house, chose the kitchen for itself and sometimes wandered around the working space in my humble abode, probably while Passpartout and I were sleeping our out for a walk. Speaking of which, Passpartout either was fine with it or just plain ignored it. I couldn’t, so I decided to do what I could, and as I was instantly assigned to the welcome committee, I placed a few “treats” to deal with it. Of course, as you might have guessed, I’m talking about a rat.

This is my epic tale I might be turning into a book or something. It’s like I was Frodo to its Mordor. I was Batman to its Joker. I was Mario to its Bowser.

Turns out, this was one relentless vermin. First of all, I thought it was just a mouse, “Haha” the thing must have thought, as it had me fooled as to what I was really dealing with. I was determined to get rid of it, but I must confess I was terrified at the possibility of finding it there, lying dead or agonizing or whatever. Not a good mental picture. Then, one day, I was in the kitchen (its turf) and I heard it, in a drawer (which I’ve had months without the need to open) in the dishwasher so I knew it was real, and I hadn’t been imagining things. I once scared myself to death by my own shadow because from the corner of my eye it looked like the rat coming right at me. Yup. Anyway, I called my sister and told her I knew where it was and apparently still living regardless of the amount of poison it had ingested before. I called her for I needed the moral support because I was going in, by which I mean I put on boots that cover half my legs and climbed on a stool and opened the kitchen door to the back yard. I rattled the drawer a bit and the thing climbed behind the dishwasher and found its way out through the window. At this point I’m screaming bloody murder and probably startling most of my neighbors, who maybe assumed that a crime was in process. I shut the door and the window and just tried to calm myself down hoping that the bastard rodent would just find itself out of the yard and into the wild.

No such luck, the thing was too comfy in my house and wanted to be part of this family. I wasn’t having it, no, no, I said and though I wasn’t really sure I put out more poison for it. Evidence pointed out that the rat was still around, but at least it was outside now and I took cautionary measures to keep it that way.

One night I found a few red spots around where I placed the poison, so I assumed it would die soon enough. The very next day I went out to check and there it was, in the corner near the kitchen window, kinda looking like “Do you think she saw me?” on its face. You know how they tell you that it is probably more scared of you than you of it? Well, I might just be the antithesis of that expression. Again, I shrieked and slammed the door shut, and ran for the phone. Maybe I should have ran for the broom or if I had one a shotgun, but I just needed to hear either my sister’s or my mother’s voice, even if they couldn’t make out what I was saying through my panting panic attack. So, yeah, basically that’s my reaction when I see a rat. I scream. I run. I call someone. It’s real simple to remember and follow through.

So, the next day, I went out again, but I had my weapon of choice, a broom, and ventured outside. I didn’t have to go far, or even leave the frame of the door because there it was again, only this time it was nearer to the floor, and after a squeamish yelp I tried hitting it with the broom, successfully, but not fatally. It hid somewhere I couldn’t reach and I gave up for the time being, since I had stuff to do. Either way, there is no such thing as a small victory, and I was proud I at least mustered the courage to at least strike it, since I wasn’t even sure I was capable of.

Later that same day, a handy man came to the house, since I’m doing a few renovations at home (will post pictures), mostly accelerated due to the presence of the rat. Anyway, while I was showing him where the renovations would be (right where the rat had decided to camp) I walked out with the broom in my hands and explained why. This man kinda chuckled and asked where I thought it was and as he was assessing the situation, the flashlight illuminated the dark hideout of the rat and there it was just standing there still with the halo of the light around it. Of course, I squealed. For those PETA supporters out there I suggest you stop reading, because the man took a useless broomstick and clubbed the rodent. Actually, stabbed it. And it made squeaky noises while I squealed some more. This was on repeat for a bit. Wham. Squeal. Squeak. Wham. Squeal. Squeak. Then he said it was over and I grabbed some plastic bag to place it and then to the garbage bin. I must say I didn’t look at the remains for fear that I would spread last week’s instant ramen noodles on the rat and the man’s shoes.

So it was over. It was finally over. Granted I did not do it myself, but it’s not like I made the man do it. He was amused by the whole thing. And before anyone revokes my membership of feminism, I did make a few proactive moves which I never would have thought I was capable of. I was fortunate enough that the handy man came along and the rat was as he put it “a little disoriented”.

For everyone’s sake, mostly my own, I did not make this a “It’s not me, it’s Eew” episode because that would require a picture of the rat itself, so, you’re welcome.

So, that happened. Believe me, it was not pretty going to bed and shutting my bedroom thinking that outside there was a rat living it large at my expense and fear. I felt safe now that it is dead, that is until my sister dropped by and looking at the garbage bags that hold the carcass of the rodent she says “Hope it’s not a zombie rat.” Thank you for the nightmares.

Feature image: Disney Pixar's Ratatouille from the movie Ratatouille.