Last Laugh | A Rat’s Tale
Verminized! By Lauren Hammack
I
once saw a program on HBO about the rats of New York City. I’m not sure why this enthralled me, but I was riveted by the shocking stories New Yorkers shared about their harrowing experiences with legions of rodents that had invaded their otherwise peaceful lives. By all accounts, the rats were running the show in New York City, with bad attitudes to boot. One exasperated victim insisted that after a king-sized rat fell onto his bed from the ceiling of his infested apartment, the indignant rodent mocked him by inciting an intense staring contest with the man until finally, the man flinched. Maybe my fascination with the rat program stems from having once been verminized myself. My husband Bob and I were hosting a houseful of football fans for the OU/OSU game years ago. While Bedlam was breaking out in our media room upstairs, all hell was breaking loose in the downstairs kitchen. I’d walked in just in time to catch the split-second movement of what appeared to be a large rat slipping under the dishwasher. I. Just. Saw. A. Rat. Hopping around as if I were on an invisible pogo stick, I summoned my husband downstairs and mouthed the word, “RAAAAAAAAAAT!!! Rat, rat, rat, rat, raaaaaat!” Bob shrugged off my trauma with unusual calm. “I’ve told you, when it turns cold outside, a mouse will probably try to come inside. I’ll get a box of poison tomorrow,” he promised. We both put on our game faces and returned to our guests upstairs. I dispatched Bob the following morning to load up on poison. “Get the kind with the big RAT on the box!” I told him. Convinced we were stalking a pet store treasure, Bob returned with a single box of mouse poison – a mere hors d’oeuvre for our thug. I immediately set out a d-Con® buffet for anything on four feet that might happen by, adding small drinking troughs I’d crafted from Dixie® cups, reasoning that a properly poisoned rat is a thirsty rat. 174
slice | november 2010
Now, I’d just wait. Well, wait and lie awake all night, wondering if Goliath Razorteeth would scale my bed and gnaw at my jugular. The dreams of hamsters on wheels had all but subsided when, several days later, I went down the basement stairs, only to confront him: MegaRat. A central drain on the basement floor collected water from the washer, providing the rat just enough refreshment to activate the poison from his d-Con® feast. He died with his eyes open – the final insult – as if he knew I’d stay frozen on the stairs for half an hour. Thirty minutes later, I alerted Bob that the rat had met his demise at the drain and would have to be removed right after work. “Stop calling it a rat,” my husband insisted. “If it’s not a rat,” I countered, “then it’s either a feral kitten with a bad case of mange on its tail, or it’s a teenage possum. Either way, there’s a carcass with your name on it in the basement tonight.” After work, I wasted no time reminding Bob that “Ben” was waiting in the basement. “Don’t forget that rat,” I told him. “Mouse,” he snapped back, as though clarifying the late rodent’s genus somehow amounted to defending its dignity. Halfway down his “mouse death march” into the basement, the sound of Bob’s footsteps stopped abruptly. Wait for it . . . “RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT!!!!! Oh my GOD, it’s a RAAAAAAAAAAAAAT!!!” he bellowed, making record time back upstairs. In a final gesture of humanity for the rat we had just poisoned, we prepared a proper burial, using a Bounce® fabric softener box for his casket, folding his tail over to fit him completely inside. Cooler weather has finally arrived and I’ve already set out my traditional d-Con® buffet around the house. But just in case that’s not prevention enough, I’ve set aside a Bounce® box or two for Bob to use when he gets home from work.