the art of eRATication

I'm a modern gal, born and bred for these modern times. And I've been on my own, little town girl in the great big city and all. I've proven to the universe and anyone watching that I will do what needs to be done, when I need to.

But that doesn't stop me from playing the gender role trump when there is a rat in the house.

In my opinion, if there is a man available, including and not limited to the guy next door who once helped push my car out of a snow drift, that man should seriously consider the possiblility that rat eradication is his God-given role. (Now, in my neighbor's defense, how is he to know that the bloodcurdling, three octave screetches coming from next door were his cue to come rescue me from the rodents in our house? I probably wasn't screaming loud enough.)

So I shut rat in the kitchen drawer and raced to get into position holding the broom high in the air, and thought, what am I doing? Am I actually going to hit it? I would probably miss, or worse, strike it down and guts would get all over. Plus, part of me thought it was kind of cute....and disgusting....but what if I missed, and it decided to come after me and I kept swinging and accidentally knocked noodles off shelves, while the rat clutched on to my pant leg and started climbing--

I could feel myself weakening. Was I supposed to wait until my father and brother came home from work? What do you do, call a specialist? What would they do? Is there a procedure for this kind of thing? I wish someone would just come home and deal with this!!

I had (legitimately) other errands, so when I returned my brother and dad were already on rat patrol, bless them. I have been grateful for males before, but I believe this instance was in my top ten.

"Get out of the doorway," my brother hissed. "We are trying to chase it out!"

So we moved the table and all the chairs and pulled up the area rugs to makeshift a wall, the rat rustling behind the shelves, running up the curtains, and behind another set of cabinets.

In the end, it was a group victory. Of course, my dad and brother get all the bravery points, but in this case, I was content to be a coward. We looked like a band of villagers holding pitchforks and shovels, brooms, and Tupperware lids. We chased the (poor) thing out into the open and blocked his way until he found the open door and ran out into the wide, wide world.

"What was that?" we asked each other. We had seen its tail, and its tail was furry.  Was that a squirrel?? I can't believe we would terrorize a cute little squirrel.

"It's not a squirrel," my sister announced from the computer. "It is a bushy-tailed wood rat. And I hope it didn't have any babies, because it will try to get back in."

To which my brother ran after it, yelling and holding the shovel above his head. Take that, rat.