nice kitty, kitty
My brain moved slowly from dreamland to the dim twilight of pre-awakening. I felt distant toes plowing through my tangled curls on my pillow, twisting and pulling. An urgently telegraphed message read: Stop. The rat is in your hair.
I bolted into a sitting position and nearly sprained my neck as my body twisted swiftly to the left and my hand flew to the table next to my bed and fumbled for the light switch on the bamboo lamp.
The rat was gone, and it had absconded with two orange earplugs, the very earplugs I had been using to block the incessant crunching sounds coming from behind the walls of the house. The rats taunt us from behind the drywall, crunching acorns and pilfered birdseed, snug in the knowledge we haven’t reached a point where we will tear out the sheetrock in order to kill them.
We have killed two rats so far who became so bold as to venture beyond the walls to our living space. How many more must die? Our dog, Phoebe, is an excellent hunter when her prey is outdoors. Inside, she doesn’t know what to make of the noises emanating from the walls. If Phoebe would tolerate a feline in the house, I would borrow someone’s cat. It would know what to do.