The Rats
- Michael Jay Tucker's explosive-cargo
- 14 minutes ago
- 4 min read
So last time I was talking about how we were planning to get a Casita in our backyard. I had thought, first, that I would get a prefab shed and finish it off myself. Then, fortunately, sanity clicked in and realized that given the limits of my ability as a fix-it guy...well, let’s just say we’d be lucky if afterwards the house was still standing and there wasn’t instead a massive crater where once it had been. Basically, my attempts at construction may be charitably compared to the general effects of the U.S. military’s GBU-43/B Massive Ordnance Air Blast bomb (a.k.a.,“The Mother of all Bombs’) but without the cool sound effects.(1)
So...given that reality...we had decided to find a contractor. This had proved to be difficult in the extreme, and then, when we finally did locate a potential ‘tractor, he proved to be...shall we say?...less than the honest, honorable, and helpful tradesmen beloved by the Better Business Bureau, the National Association of Realtors (NAR), the Contractors' Society of America (CSOA), and...by gum...Santa Claus (SC). He knows if you’ve been bad or good, etc.
But, after one negative experience, we were determined to try again. And, in fact, one morning, I woke up early, made myself a cup of coffee, crashed on the sofa in our cozy little living room, and Planned To Move Forward. (ta-dah!)
Which was when I heard...
...over head...
....the distinct sound of furious scratching.
What?
I stood up again. Where was it coming from? It sounded like...er...like...uh...the ceiling? Whoa. What could cause that?
Maybe, I told myself, it was squirrels on the roof. That would make a lot of sense. We’ve got a bunch of trees here. And there are squirrels in the trees. And they run across the roof. That must be it, I told myself.
I opened the back door and popped outside (still in my PJs and robe, but nobody else was up at that hour. And if the neighbors were peeking...they’d get the migraines they’d deserve) and had a look.
Uh...no. No squirrels in sight.
I went back in. Okay, what on earth was it? The scratching stopped but then...damn...there was the sound of running feet up there. Scamper scamper scamper.
You don’t suppose...?
By this time Martha was up. I got her coffee and sat her down on the sofa with her crossword puzzles. Then I hurried to put on some actual clothes.
I went into the garage, moved Martha’s car out of the way, folded down the ladder that goes to our unfinished attic. And hurried up with a flashlight in hand...
And...once I was up there...and I shined the light off into the mounds of insulation and long, silvery, air duct tubes...
I saw...
Just for a split second...
Two, cold, beady, little, red...
Eyes.
Looking at me...and not in a friendly sort of way...
The rat vanished with a snarl behind an air duct.
And it *was* a rat. Not a sweet little mouse. It was a big, freaky, nasty RAT. And I guessed, there was more than one. Maybe a lot more.(2)
I sighed and headed back down the ladder. Yep...the Casita Project had just gone on hold.
We had a way bigger problem to fix.
And, or so I guessed, it wasn’t going to be easy.
More to come.
Footnotes:
1. For those with an interest in such things, here’s a couple of sources on MOAB: “Mother of all Bombs,” U.S. Department of Defense, https://www.defense.gov/Multimedia/Photos/igphoto/2001732840/ and “GBU-43/B MOAB,” Wikipedia, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/GBU-43/B_MOAB
2. Turned out I was right. I don’t know how many rats there were up there, but I’m guessing we were providing rent-free room and board to half the rodents in the neighborhood.
About the pictures: First, an actual photo of me upon hearing the sound of rats in the walls...I mean roof. Second, what I hoped I was hearing (but wasn’t). This little visitor is a frequent diner at our bird-feeder. And third, Martha at lunch a while back. (As per norm, nothing to do with the story, but I just liked the photo).
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