I live with a rat. Possibly he is a mouse. I’ve never seen him. At night, when he is certain I am secured beneath the bed sheets, I hear him dragging things around and banging into stuff. Perhaps he’s partially blind. Whatever the case, this rodent has shabby eating habits.
On the counter in the kitchen are bags of croissants, bags of nuts and fruit but he will only help himself to the Cheetos. He makes one careful slit in the sack and then plunders from the gap. Due to hanta virus I have to sadly throw out the tampered treats.
This pest was brash and reckless. If he had gone after something besides Cheetos perhaps we could have worked out a deal.
One day I found out he had ramped up his technique. I discovered in a drawer in the kitchen that he had secreted a stash. Was he planning a new nest? I had to ask around but I didn’t like the suggestions, from glue boxes and traps to poison. I’ve watched too many crime shows not to see where that was headed. Jail for one!
A wild man from Tennessee showed up with ‘country’ ideas on what to do with vermin. ‘I’ll handle this,’ he said and retrieved a handful from the bag, coated them with dishwashing liquid and placed them carefully in the rodent drawer, making of them an fierce face, like an Aztec mask. ‘Are you hoping to frighten him?’ I asked, incredulous. And when the next day the tainted food was gone, not even orange dust particles remained, I proclaimed, ‘Failure!’
After castigating the wildling from Tennessee for his misleading vim gradually, as the days piled up, it was clear there would be no further sign of the nighttime raider.
I can’t say I miss him. Equally I can’t say I don’t.
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