The Rat Saga: Part 2

Rat bastards! This would be my new term of endearment for the furry-except-for-the-tail varmints that reside in my apartment. Yesterday, the exterminator and contractors came to get rid of the rats and seal all points of entry. Last night, I finally fell asleep, despite the scratching sounds above me. I had faith that the rats no longer had a way into my apartment and, more importantly, into my bedroom. In the wee hours of the morning, I heard a new scratching in wall by the head of my bed. Pushing through my drowsy state, I realized the rat bastards were just inside the wall with a thin layer of sheet rock separating them from me. I called upon my newfound expertise in thwarting rat invaders and turned on the light next to my bed. Apparently, rats are not fans of light. The scratching stopped.

At 6:30 this morning, the saga took a new and ugly turn. As the sun rose, I decided I could afford to turn off my lamp and hopefully get some much needed sleep without a light in my eyes. Within one minute the scratching began again, louder this time. One minute after that, a lovely black rat struts to the head of my bed on my heater board. It looks me right in the eye and continues to strut behind my bookcase and under my bed. That's right! I now have a rat under my bed at 6:30 on Sunday morning.

Last time I encountered a rat, I screamed and threw things. This time, I was not scared--I was pissed. Not only had the exterminators not exterminated all of the rats, but the contractor clearly missed a spot. And, on top of that, the rats spent the day brainstorming how to traumatize the party pooper. This morning, there were no dainty screams. This time, the rats heard, in full detail, what exactly I thought of them--while standing on my bed, of course. Then, I heard the damn thing rustling underneath my bed. I was alone in my room with a rat--or two-- at 6:30 in the morning. Clearly, the rat had won this battle. No way in hell was I going rustling through my things to find the rat bastard. I conceded, grabbed my computer and left my room.

As I sat down on my couch, the realization that I had a rat in my room finally struck home and I cried. Then, I realized I had a rat in my room, and I laughed. With the special skill that women seem to posses, I sat on my couch laughing and crying simultaneously and, of course, I called my mom.

Now my project is to go through my room, lifting my futon and opening drawers to find the rat and the entry point. This afternoon, two lovely Honduran men who speak very little English will help me rifle through my room, moving furniture and emptying bags, tryinig to find the hiding rat. If we find it, we shoot to kill. Yes, you read that correctly. We are under strict orders to kill any rat we find. And, when I say we, that does mean that I am expected to help in the finding and eliminating of the rat that has set up shop under my bed. Watch out, varmints! I don't give a rat's ass if you are a mom, cousin or generally nice guy, you are dead. You infiltrated my sanctuary, and now you pay! As I write this, the insolent creatures have slid down the wall into my closet. Great!