o, rats!

It had been a full Sunday just with the grading of papers and the preparations for class. I kept changing locations so that a fresh environment would keep me on my toes and hard at work. After coming back from Deidrich's on Westheimer, where I finished grading, I heated up some leftovers, and plunked myself down on the futon in front of the TV, hoping the new seasons of cartoons would be on and i would have a good hour or so of time off for my teaching brain.

What I remember most is that I was coming into the kitchen to deposit my dishes in the sink, put away the tupperware containers of leftovers, and possibly even open a bottle of wine to go with the animation.

Suddenly, a RAT was -- what? hopping? leaping? from the back room (the sun room, the gentleman's retreat, if you will) into the kitchen and, my first reaction was to let out a startled yelp and call out for Hank. At this point I named what I thought I saw ("A mouse!!") until it dawned on me that, actually, it was much bigger, and much scarier looking than a mouse ("No -- a rat!!!") and as I yelled this and backed away it, the rat, zoomed into the kitchen and, without looking to see where it was going, I turned and ran screaming from the room.

Maybe its because he didn't actually have the pleasure of seeing the rat, or maybe because he grew up visiting families that lived on East Texas farms, or maybe because he labored at Deep Springs, or maybe because, simply, he is far more butch when it comes to confronting small vermin than I could ever hope to be -- but whatever the reason, Hank grabbed the nearest weapon (in this case, the extra dowel that we bought with the intention of hanging clothes from it in the closet) and a bucket, ready to trap, bash, or chase out the rat and restore order to the domestic sphere.

Not following the rat with my eyes was a bad idea, though, since I could not answer Hank's practical question, "Where did it go?". When Hank asked me to help him get a flashlight, I sort of turned into Barbara from Night of the Living Dead, because all I could manage to do was stare off into space and kind of poke around in a daze, watching while Hank went in and out of drawers, and gathered some other items that might help at least chase the rat out of doors for the time being.

After about a half an hour, however, the rat was clearly not coming back, and I was beginning to calm down. I asked Hank a lot of inane questions (Do you think it's gone? Do you think it'll come back? Do you think it has a family?), and finally decided, along with Hank, that the rat was probably more afraid of me than I was of it, and that my presence alone was enough to make it run for the hills (or at least the compost heap). I called the landlord who promised to send an expterminator the next morning and then, for some reason, compared having a rat in the apartment to being raped. Um, sorry, what did you say? I think he must have immediately regretted this comparison, because the tone of his voice changed immediately and he talked on an on about the importance of cats and did we want to adopt one?

Having finally found some closure, and since the Simpsons was about to come on, I decided to make the best of a bad situation. I grabbed the bottle of wine and the opener and headed back to the kitchen for a wine glass. The nightmare returned. The rat came right out from under the stove and zig-zagged all over the kitchen floor, looking for an exit. Once again, I turned and ran, letting out another long, terrified yell that combined vowels with a cry for help. Hank came bounding in from the living room, but by this time the rat had disappeared under the dishwasher. This was a breaking point.

What were we going to do?

My intial thought was to leave. Call a friend and stay somewhere else. Hank suggested going out, getting traps or poison ourselves, and trying to kill the rat on our own. Neither sounded good to both of us. In a moment of total frustration, Hank grabbed our bar stool, his dowel, a hammer, and the bucket, set up a post by the kitchen table, and claimed that he would stand guard and kill the rat himself. Suddenly, I envisioned a screeching, half-dead rat that hissed, bit, and fought tooth and nail with Hank on the kitchen floor; then I pictured brains, blood, and a carcass (um, not Hank's). It was too much for me. I didn't want to see it.

I then got the bright idea that, even though we didn't have a cat, perhaps our friend Laura would bring over her two dogs, both Springer Spaniels, and they would flush the rat from our kitchen, like a duck from a bush. I called Laura and she kindly agreed to bring them over, although she did express a concern that the rat might be rabid and in attack mode but I, somehow, strong-armed her into not worrying too much about that, and she was over within minutes. The dogs came in and were told to "get the squirrel" and then, when that had them looking at the ceiling, to "get the kitty." They made a good attempt to find something, but came up with zero. (I should note that Edison, the more autistic of the two dogs, did try to chase the shadows on the kitchen floor, and Clarabelle, the more vocal of the two, barked at us in confusion.)

After packing a small bag, I announced that I was not staying the night, simply because I did not want to get up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom or get some water and have another shocking scream-fest that might wake everyone up. Plus, I really did not want to see the rat again. Hank, however, was brave, and stayed put.

Yesterday evening, Hank, after a day of dropping off the first installment of his serialized fiction (titled Broke and available at all Houston hotspots -- get one now and collect all nine!! Ask for an autograph!!), picked me up at work and we went out to eat (note: El Tiempo on Washington is a terrible place to get Mexican food. Expensive, bad service, and bad food.). We got home just before President Coo Coo Bananas (as Homer would say) made his September 11th speech. I drifted off into a pretty good sleep, and woke up refreshed.

The house has been, as far as I have seen, rat free. The landlord actually did not hire an exterminator, but came over himself and put rat poison in the openings under the duplex, under our sink, in the a/c closet, in the water-heater closet, and in the closet of the front toom. I hope it works.

Even though I have lived in places where I could hear rats in the walls (Berthea Apartments) and where I saw rats every single day in the courtyard or trees surrounding my apartment (Jack Street, West Alabama), I have not yet, as far as I have known, had one in my kitchen. Apparantly, the poison is a strong dose of vitamin K that causes extreme thirst and, the theory goes, the rats will leave the building and look for water outside, and then die the thirstiest death of all. My friend Gretchen points out that the whole "then they leave the building and die elsewhere" is a bit of a myth, since many have reported having to deal with them once they die in crawl spaces or attics.

I want to believe the myth, and I never want to see one inside, again.