So, guess you probably heard, but in case you’ve been in Kathmandu or some crazy-azz place like that and you missed it, we’ve got rats.
Lots. Of. Rats.
Right here, in the house, for several months now. And I’ve been avoiding dealing with them. Until this week. Because they just wouldn’t go away.
That’s my sign. If you start looking permanent then it’s time for you to pay rent or go. They refused to pay. Oh well. That means they have to go.
But hubby didn’t want to do anything to hurt them. Yeah, who knew? Bob’s the Rat-vocate around here. Gandhi of the furry creatures. Wow. Which apparently means that I’m Dr. Kevorkian… or Dr. Mengele. Because I want a final solution and I want it now.
I think Bob’s afraid of me. He thinks he’s next.
My campaign of terror has seen success. Two are dead. Victims of my handy dandy rodent traps. Baited with good cheese, because their last meal should be tasty, right up until they die of course. And to show his opposition to my plot, my husband is sitting Shiva and saying the Mourners Kadish for the first victims of my raticide campaign.
He’s like that.
Key takeaway point: if you want to be left alone in the hardware store, tell the clerk you’re planning a murder and you think they need to walk away in order to not be subpeona’d as a material witness. That kid might not be sleeping soundly yet. And all because of the middle-aged lady with the big smile, nice purse, and cute shoes, who was busy plotting homocide in the Pest Removal section of Aisle 9.
You’re welcome. That’s a visual that is sure to amuse.
I don’t miss them. The rats. Not at all. And I don’t feel bad about their death. Not a bit. Survival of the fittest. It’s not just a suggestion, it’s a life plan. Make good decisions, think stuff through, and always figure that anything good being given away for free is probably going to have a bad consequence or two. So today’s life lesson, for humans and rats…
“Don’t eat the cheese.”