Saturday, August 19,
2000
1:44 a.m. Remember how I just remarked, recently, about
how easily we get used to things? How we slip into the
current perception and think it's how things are? I was
talking about small TV, big TV, but I could just as easily
have been talking about vermin.
Yes. It's back. The rat is alive and well, and --
obviously thriving here in our house. I thought it had gone
away because I haven't seen hide nor hair of it, and I've
pranced around, barefoot, as if I lived here alone. I do
not. I share this place with a very bold, very brazen
varmit.
Tonight, we're sitting in the middle room, happily
watching the big TV when suddenly we hear a distinct *sound*
from the kitchen, just one room away. It was very distinct.
Sort of like a closet door closing smartly. Which is what it
was.
I look over to the kitchen and wonder. Maybe a bag of
something fell over, I think. No biggie. And then suddenly,
I see him. He's not running, he's not fleeing, he's not even
hurrying. And all the lights are on -- it might as well be
broad daylight in there.
He casually meanders across the kitchen floor, and of
course -- heads for my office, Igor follows him and he ...
(the rat) ... actually pauses. Pauses. And then he stands up
on his rear legs for a moment, and then he goes ... away.
Somewhere.
If only the back door had been open, maybe he would have
strolled right on out. As it stands now, we're buying the
poison tomorrow and then we have the joy of raticide to look
forward to. You dirty rats. I killed your muddah. Yick.
What really gives me pause is how I have to keep
adjusting my reality -- from skin crawling, sitting on my
feet on the chair, creepy cold chills up and down my arms,
to not a single rat-thought in the world. From looking down
obsessively to never even glancing at the floor.
It's so weird. I happily vacuumed all day today, never
once thinking he was back. or still here. I believe he's got
a path through the walls from the back of my office to the
inside of the pots and pans cupboard. That's my theory of
the evening.
If I'd had my camera in my hands, I could have very
easily taken his photo. He probably would have slicked back
his whiskers and smiled a big toothy grin for you. Rat
bastard. Must buy poison.
Ok. My legs are cramping and I want to take a hot bath
and then spray the entire house with Lysol. Or move. I know
it's always something, and of course I'm glad it's not
scorpions. It could be worse. It could be a possum. I've
seen them outside running along the top of the wall and they
look like rats on steroids.
It's actually made me nostalgic for the cutsy little
mouse we had. Not really. Not really. I'm babbling. I hope
he continues to keep his distance. I hope he has some
respect. That's my only hope, really.
Who am I kidding? I don't have a rat in my house. I'm
through the looking glass. My rooms are flimsy anterooms to
the real tunnel and maze complex that is his domain. I
merely live on the surface. It's really his house.
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