Monday, December 10, 2007

Paths of Glory: The Rat War of 2007 - Part 1

The following is the first of a two part essay involving my recent rodent dilemma. Special thanks to Justin Dudley for helping me edit and put it in essay/blog form.

October 15, 2007

I have a problem.

It doesn’t relate to drugs or alcohol; credit cards or pornography. Nor does it have anything to do with the IRS, though I have battled that organization of bastards in the past. My problem doesn’t consist of anything of a habitual nature, and for the first time in a long time… this plague of nuisance ness isn’t even human.

My problem… consists of two members of the Rattus norvegicus genus.

Rats.

Last month, I was sitting on my living room couch when out of the corner of my eye, I saw something run across the floor. Then, a split second later, it was followed by something else, both heading in the direction of the kitchen. Jumping up, I followed in pursuit. I knew by the size of their tails what I was dealing with, but I unfortunately wasn’t able to catch them, for they instantly disappeared.

But they didn’t go far.

All night, I was kept awake by their scratching and scurrying. When I would hear what sounded like rummaging in my pantry, I would leap toward it, golf club in hand, only to find nothing but the usual contents. With one exception. Shit. Rat shit.

All night, I would hear them. They were mocking me. Partying at the expense of my slumber.

This unfortunate series of events plagued me the next night as well. By 2 in the morning, I had given up on sleep and found myself sitting on the couch… golf club in hand… waiting… waiting for the bastards to make a move in my presence. Once or twice they would do so and I’d respond by chasing them into the kitchen, only to find that they had craftily disappeared yet again. I was finally able to nod off by 6 in the morning when the sounds stopped.

The third night was spent in the exact same way. By 4 in the a.m., as I sat on the couch in my pajama’s, golf club in hand, I came to the conclusion that it was either the rats… or my sanity… and seeing as how I was getting low on xanax, I made the decision that the rats had to go.

This morning, I went death shopping.

I had many options. Poisons. Snap traps. Cage traps. Glue traps. These were rats, mind you, not mice. Mouse catching methods do not apply.

Though I had had three sleepless nights, I found that I didn’t harbor hatred towards my foes; just resentment. I craved sleep, not blood. Snap traps were out of the question. I didn’t want to snap the little guys necks in half and have their eyes bulge out. I also didn’t want them bleeding and pissing all over my new carpet, but that’s beside the point.

So I settled on glue traps.

Glue traps are advertised as the more… humane… way to kill things, and being the humanitarian that I am, whenever I plan on killing anything, be it animal… or human… I I prefer to do it in the most humane way possible. Humane as in: clean, slow, painful, and most importantly… clean. Not quick, painless, and bloody (un-clean, un-humane), but the more “humane” way: slow, painful, and clean.

I’m a very clean person.

An hour ago, as the clock chimed midnight, I hear the sound of chaos in my kitchen. Upon inspection, I see that a rat is stuck to the glue trap. Partially. Only his back legs and his tail were captured. Because of this, he’s able to do what the trap is intended to stop: move. To put it simply… he’s going apeshit. And not only is he going apeshit, but by the anger present in his eyes and his combative movements (including growling, hissing), it’s obvious that the little fucker is wanting a war.

And a war I was prepared to give.

Unfortunately, aside from the glue trap, I didn’t have any other weapons at my disposal. By weapons, I of course mean the typical, conventional weapons of war… M16 assault rifle, hand grenades, or a Kevlar Flak jacket. A badminton racket would have to do.

So as I’m searching for the weapon I intend to use, he apparently comes to the realization of what I intend to do to him and he manages to pull himself a short ways from the kitchen to the living room and onto my brand new carpet; a brilliant move, obviously, because now I can’t beat the holy hell out of him. Scanning the kitchen, I find a plastic box with a lid. Grabbing that, along with the racket, I move to the living room where I intend to use the racket to scoop him up and put him in the box, before he shits and pisses all over… the brand new carpet.

I move closer. The growling continues. I move closer. The growling becomes an almost roar of anger. It’s as if he’s a war-hungry rodent-marine, saying, in rat-a-nese, “you want a piece of me, fat boy? Bring it on! Hoo-rah!”

Reaching down, I prepare to slip the racket underneath him… but the sonofabitch counters this by firmly biting down on the racket. I try shaking it but he’s determined to take it away from me. The only way I can regain control is to yank it. The only thing that keeps him from flying off of the carpet and against the wall is the fucking glue on the trap which is now STUCK to my brand new carpet!

Having no other options, I pop him on the head, stunning him, and then quickly flip him into the box, the lid following. But now I realize that I have a new set of problems. What the hell am I going to do with the rat, a sticky trap, and the box? The only answer I could come up with is to throw him in the portable garbage dumpster outside of my house. So, I walk him outside, carefully, and then place him, carefully, on top of some garbage inside of my dumpster, making sure that the rat was stuck to the trap, inside the box, the lid closed tightly on the box, and resting ontop of the garbage inside of the dumpster. With a heavy sigh and a strong, manly feeling of victory, I reentered my house and got ready for bed.

It is now 2 in the a.m. as I sit writing this. Why? Because I cannot sleep. Why? Because my enemy is letting his bitter discontent be known by going apeshit inside of it’s plastic prison, only a few feet away from me. I have a strange feeling that this battle is not over… and that the real war is just over the horizon.

To Be Continued.

4 comments:

Kristen said...

Ok, so I am sitting at work, reading this block that my little red headed friend Justin posted a bulletin about on MySpace. Mind you, I am not supposed to be on the internet at all, so fee lucky, very, very lucky! I am however wondering...did he really, really wright this? I mean, I knew he was funny...but holy hell I am rolling! Love you Justin!
Kristen Gore (York)

June said...

In times of war, sacrifices need to be made. I too have had my battles with the four legged, beedy eyed foe. We on the other hand went for the snap trap, which after catching only the tail end of the enemy caused quite a disturbance. So when the time comes use the force. You can stay up all night cleaning the carpet with a smile of satisfaction knowing that you are victorious.

THE Justin Dudley whose Century is HIS said...

kristen,

the story was the corn-mans. the words to the story belong to me. if you think the first part of the story is funny, wait for the conclusion!

Wags391 said...

I've had my day with rats. It came with the removal of a dish washer, a stolen sticky trap (yes, the rat stole it), and then a baited snap trap. Gross and bloody, but did the trick.

 

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