ROUSes

Rodents of unusual size. They are not a fictional character from the greatest movie of all time – PB of course, they are real and I have witnessed one. Let’s go back to a morning a few falls ago.

Fingers wave in the air, as high pitch sounds repeat and repeat.

One fair morning my roomie (who will go unnamed for the time being – she may choose to reveal herself if she so pleases) decided she wanted to boil eggs. She proceeded to place an entire dozen eggs in a pot, turn the burner on high and go take a shower. Now for most people this would be an acceptable feat as they would shower quickly and be out just in time to partake of their newly boiled eggs. Unfortunately this roomie is a “special” person with a “special” shower habit that includes a shower time that is longer than a normal washing machine cycle. Suffice it to say, that the eggs suffered a severe death due to the lengthy showering. I, subsequently, got out of my quick (always less than 15 minutes, with an average of 8.33 repeating) shower and my nose was tickled by a foul aroma. Tickled might not be the real word for it. If my nose had a mouth is would have screamed “what is that stanky smell?” and then “Oh my word is the house on fire?” to which my feet replied with a sprint to the kitchen to see what part of our house caught on fire. I was greeted by billowing smoke (I think the fire detector might have gone off) and the most retched smell to ever cross my nostrils to this day. Eggs never smell good, but burnt eggs are the depths of Hades to the olfactory sensory glands. I quickly pulled the burnt shells of smelliness away from the heat source and went in search for my sweet roomie (who by the way was still showering – how is she not a prune I know not, she must have skin cells of magnificent aquification – or she’s a water buffalo). So I quickly and kindly notified her that her eggs had met an untimely death and our house stunk of egg carcass. I then left for school and assured myself that my lovely roomie would take care of the dead eggs in the kitchen and somehow rid the house of the smell.

When I returned to my house I was excited to smell that the stanky stench had dissipated and there was only a lingering whiff of egg smelliness. My roomie had left for the weekend and I was settling in to prepare to attend an overnight conference of sorts. So I sat down on my couch and prepared to eat my dinner. Out of the corner of my eye I perceived some movement (I’m glad my optometrist checks my peripheral vision on all my visits) and turned to catch whatever had caught my attention. I say a tail scurry under the couch. A tail people. May I put forth that an unexpected tail is never welcome. A cute tail of a domesticated pet is a friendly thing to behold, especially if it is wagging, but a bony nasty hairless tail whipping as it escapes to the recesses of my couch is NOT WELCOME. I immediately practiced my survival skills and leapt into the air and landed feet first on my couch. I was now in a position of control in case the tail decided to attack.

My first instinct was to scream but fear itself kept me silent. I began to ponder how to make it from the couch to the kitchen without actually touching the ground. If only I had a stick to pole vault myself from couch to counter but alas my pole was in the linen closet so I was forced to actually step on the ground (or as I like to call it playground of the evil tail). I’m pretty sure that my feet actually only touch twice in the 15 feet it took me to get from couch to counter (and a phone). Who you gonna call when there’s a rat in your house? Your dad of course. I got my mom instead. Not a good sign.

You see my mom is great at pointing out the obvious (and giving all kinds of information that while useful may not put a person with a rat in their house at ease). My mother proceeded to tell me that rats are adept at climbing things and squeezing through holes 1/100th of their body size. This of course added to my anxiety. She told me to not try and use a broom to scurry the rat out the door because it might run up the broom and bite me in the face (that was her exact comment people, bite me in the face and all).

So here I am on my countertop and feeling very secure after talking with my mom so who do I call next? My friend who had some experience with rats and bb-guns. My friend Matt had told me a story of how he and some roommates had trapped a mouse/rat (their all the same people no matter how cute and sweet one might be proclaimed to be) in their living room and taken turns shooting at it with the bb-gun. So I called him and offered to let him have free reign of my house with his bb-gun as long as the rat was a dead man, but he wasn’t up for it (or I left a message, I don’t remember).

I think this is when I call my roomie and share with her the horror of our rat to which she nonchalantly replied “And . . . . “ And? And? And I need to get back here and help me with this crazy girl. I was trying to figure out how this rat had gotten into our house. Had it been living in our couch for weeks, growing in size until it was ready to take over the world? Had is somehow found a microscopic hole in our foundation and squeezed its way into my abode, or had an innocent attempt to clear the house of the stanky egg of death smell been the opportunity every rat had hoped for with open doors abounding and it just sauntered on into a open house? I voted for the last and therefore I wanted my sweet, kind, loving roomie to return at once and dispose of the little visitor she had welcomed with open arms by leaving the front door open. But alas she could not (did not) return to take care of our guest.

**Sidenote: The couch from whence the rat came out from under happen to be days new and was a kindly loan/donation from a friend. It had been residing in a shed at a other friend’s house and I thought the rat might have seen it as a comfy home in a sad sad world of backyard tin sheds and that might have been how the rat came to live with me but nooooo it was the open door people, the doorway to ratdom.

So once again I am alone with the rat (still standing on my counter) and I realize that I need to pack because I am going to an overnight conference. I don’t know if I felt better about leaving the rat in my house all night or the fact that I could sleep in comfort at this other house without thinking about a rat crawling under the covers with me to come and bite my face.

So at this conference I just happen to talk with an old friend whose dad is an exterminator (shout out to Adams Exterminating) and she told me to get some sticky traps. So as I left this little conference and was making my way home, I directed my car to the nearest Wal-Mart to pick up sticky traps. I wanted to buy at least 50 and figure out a way to cover the entire floor of my house in sticky traps but that was both expensive and unrealistic (the first one was my down fall because I can make anything realistic if I try really hard). So I call my dad again and he agrees to meet me at home with my sticky traps and try and catch this little vermin of a house guest.

We set up the sticky traps (which in reality are plastic plates with some kind of hair wax attached – if you wanted to make your own – craft day and all) and proceed to try and flush out the rat. I have a broom and my dad has the mop handle and all I can think of is that the rat is going to make a beeline for my broom and come at me with the intent of biting my face and then I am going to have to explain to people why I have rabies and a bite mark on the end of my nose (I really did think this – is that qualification for insanity, I hope not).

Well it worked well because my dad shooed the rat to the sticky trap, it did its job and we soon had a rat in a bag. Now what do you do with a rat stuck to a sticky trap and in a garbage bag? You bang it against the wall.

Ok now I know that all the members of PETA are preparing to march on my house and protest my cruel punishment of a rat doing what rats do but get over it.

So my story ends and my roomie returned to our rat-free house and she was never allowed to boil eggs again.