Rattagedon

Earlier this week I was sitting calmly at my desk, pecking away at the keyboard, when my phone began to ring. It was my wife, with that little bit of news that strikes fear in the heart of husbands everywhere.

"Hurray!", she said, speaking excitedly into the phone. "Zach heard a noise, and I took a peak into the attic and saw something in the trap!"

"Oh good", I mumbled, clearly not as excited as she was. Delightful that we had caught the little pest that had been making noise in our walls and ceilings for the past few months, but not so the thought of cleaning up the stinking pile of carnage I was sure awaited me just through the attic door.

When I got home everyone was waiting with great anticipation for the unveiling of the deceased rodents. I pulled down the attic stairs, and a line of kiddies formed on either side, like a grand parade or something. Daddy's going to get the rat, you see. "Where is the rat?", I asked my dearest, to which she replied, "Oh, just to the right of the stairs, right there at the top!"

I imagined my eyes slowly peeking over the first two-by-four to meet face to snout with the bug-eyed horrific remains of said rat. My wife, sensing my distress, decided to help by saying, "I hope it doesn't fall apart when you grab it!", and then giggled like a school girl as I started coughing.

I'd put three rat traps up there a month or so ago, carefully baited with the finest tender morsels of bacon, and tied tightly with string in the hopes that the little booger would become entangled in his desperate desire for a taste of lil piggy. I had cackled with diabolical delight as I slowly descended back down the stairs, rubbing my hands together, the lights off, the faint smell of fresh meat gently wafting its way towards whatever nesting place the little beasty had ever so lovingly and tenderly prepared for its brood. BWAHAHAHAHAHA!

But there was no diabolical laughter today. Only a little tearing of the eyes and tightening of the throat.

I pulled on a pair of disposable rubber gloves, caked my lips with Vix Vapo-Rub, and proceeded up the ladder. As soon as my head passed the last step I flipped on the light switch, turned, and saw a furry hiney laying under a trap that had been flipped upside down. Nawsty. Thankfully, the little beastie had a furry tail, instead of the traditional pink classic rat tail. I can deal with fur a lot better than pink, for some explicable reason. But what kind of rat was this?

I went a little further and tried to see the third trap, on the other side of some boxes. Yep, there was another rat in that one, and starting to look a little decayed it was. Double-Nawsty. I started gagging and skittered back down the stairs, whereupon Monica strapped a bandanna to my face. I was suddenly thankful we'd had a bout of very cold weather to help take the edge off the stench. Even so, I silently longed for the days of yore when I would stand watching, as my son was doing now, while my Dad chased rodents around the house with a wooden back scratcher.

But a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. And stuff like that right there. Fortunately, the book on manliness doesn't discredit one if one's nose is covered in Vix Vapo-Rub and a thick bandanna. I don't think anyway. Or a gas mask, which I unfortunately did not have, but desperately wished for. Clad thusly, I ventured forth yet again into the deep dark rank stank bowels of the attic.

First, I would get the rat in the back. Which was hard to get to, especially while trying not to look directly at the vile thing. I arrived at the scene of the crime and gently picked up the trap with my gloved hand, praying the rat would stay attached without body parts dropping off or something. I held my breath, picked it up, and dropped it into my handy dandy mop bucket. Hey, this wasn't so bad! Why, it was just like plucking daisies in a... *bleagh* ... cow pasture. *Bleah* A wave of stank swept up from the bucket mingling with that of the creature's lovely companion across the way, which I still had yet to retrieve. *Burp* *Bleagh* I was bent over at the waist, head banging against the rafters, trying to keep the top of the bucket as far from my face as possible whilst not accidentally stepping off the plywood and through the ceiling.


Breath.

Daisies. Flowers.

Breath.

In through the nose - smell the Vix - YES - out through the mouth.


By that time I was making lots of interesting noises, like... Aaaiiggh, and Ooooh!, as well as *Cough* *Gag* *Sputter*, whilst my family down below was calling up into the void that they wanted "to see the rat", and "what does it look like?". Bleagh. The last thing I wanted to see was the rat.

I quickly leaned over an air duct and picked up its fellow, carefully avoiding eye contact, and dropping it cleanly into my bucket. Yes! Mission accomplished. I staggered down the stairs, bringing the stank with me in my little bucket, and was mobbed by billions of people clammering to see what I had won... er caught. I put the bucket down so they could gaze, and staggered into another room to catch my breath.

Unfortunately the traps were laying on top of the rats so no one could see their crushed, decayed and bloody selves in all their glory. Which was, of course, unsatisfactory. My wife excitedly made her argument, "We need to see what kind they are! So we can... um... prevent further invasions!"

How nice. I was going to have to turn them over so my forensic family could make a positive identification. I gently flipped one over enough for everyone except myself to get a really good look, and while my kids ooohed, aaahed, and ewwwed, my wife made the extremely unsurprising statement, "It looks like that one was in the trap for a while."

No kidding.

Both of them had furry, almost bushy tails, white bellies, and gray backs. Like squirrels. But not quite. If you saw one, you might say, "That looks like a squirrel, but it ain't one."

I threw them deep into the woods, trap and all, glad to be rid of the little squirrel impersonators.

And then last night, as my wife and I lay in bed chatting, I heard the pitter-patter of little feet traipsing through my walls. At that precise moment I told Monica what I most wanted for Christmas.

A flame thrower.

Rattagedon has begun.