Rodent's Revenge?

Back when Windows 3.1 was a thing, it included a game called Rodent's Revenge. The player played the role of a mouse who went after cats. When it trapped the cat, the cat would turn into a piece of cheese, then slowly disintegrate.

While my family and I have not yet disintegrated into cheese, I think we may be players in a game of Rodent's Revenge.

A week ago Thursday, the exterminators came out and set traps and sealed up every place they could think of where rats were coming into the house.  We thought that would solve the problem.

Ha!

Recently, Matthew said he'd seen a rat in the kitchen, dashing across the floor and heading for the corner where the garbage was. I think I know where the rat may have gone. (No, Jimmy Cagney didn't give it to him through the door.)

I've also seen what I think is fresh rat poop in the house. So I'm keeping an eye out for where the poop is. The exterminators will be coming back next week and I can tell them where I think the rats are coming/going.

But I'm convinced that the rodents are getting their revenge in other ways.

On Sunday, I noticed that the house was unusually cold. It was either that day or the next that Matthew wanted to know if we had "an air conditioner for the heater" (meaning the thermostat setting.) I tried to get the thermostat to work and could not.

We called the pros, who came out and discovered that the heat and power upstairs had been turned off.  I think the power had been turned off to the central heat/air, and it wouldn't surprise me if the exterminators had turned it off for safety reasons while they were working in the attic.

The pros turned the head/power back on, and voila, we had heat again, for the price of $95.  (I'm reminded of the story attributed to Henry Ford who, when he had a problem with his plant, called a friend of his, who immediately fixed the problem and sent him a bill for about $1,000. When Ford demanded to know, why are you charging me so much? the friend itemized the bill:  "For tinkering: $10. For knowing where to tinker: $990.")

Okay, problem solved.

Until yesterday.

I went to physical therapy at 8 a.m., and planned to go to Starbucks afterwards so that I could finish a job due at noon. But when I came out from PT, I discovered a flat tire.  So I contacted AAA through the app, and got the message that AAA's ETA was 12:47 p.m. It was approximately 9:45 a.m.

I emailed the people I proof for and said, my assignment will be late. They said, this is a assignment that has to be turned in today, we can extend it a few hours but no more. (Which I understand. The legal profession works under tight deadlines.)

So, I decided to pull out my trusty computer and work while I was waiting. Here I am, sitting with the driver's seat pushed back as far as it will go, listening to a recording and checking the transcript as I'm going along.

Around 11:30, I got a text saying, your dispatcher is on the way; and then I got a phone call a few minutes later from the AAA worker saying he'd be there in about 25 minutes.

He arrived, changed my tire, and chatted with me very nicely while he was working. When the tire came off, I immediately saw the problem. I'd run over a screw. (Yes, my tire was officially screwed. As I write this, my husband and I are at Pep Boys getting it fixed.)

He finished about 12:15, and I immediately got into the car after being told that "you can't drive over 50 miles an hour on that spare". All the way home, I kept thinking about the Sammy Hagar song, "I Can't Drive 55."

I got home at 12:45 p.m. and told my husband what had happened, and said, leave me alone for the next 40 minutes while I finish. He made lunch for me while I was finishing the job.

Job was finished at about 1:40 p.m. When I turned it in, I immediately got a "thank you" from the people I proof for. (I'd also got a "thank you" email from them when I said, I have my computer with me so I can work while I wait.)

So, that problem was solved . . . but as the old Ronco commercials said, "But wait! There's more!"

I had been wearing a long sleeved blue shirt and during PT, I noticed a hole in one of the sleeves. So I thought, "Oh, it's a small hole and I know how to darn holes. I'll get some embroidery thread the same color and fix it."

Last night, when I took off that blue shirt, I discovered more holes.

In BOTH sleeves.

They resemble the holes that are in a pair of my jeans.

I think the rat(s) decided they wanted a midnight snack. It's interesting that they enjoy the color blue.

And, to top it off, there is a small spot on a Rubbermaid container where we're currently keeping the potatoes where it looks like something has gnawed on it. (Yes, I know we are supposed to keep potatoes in ventilated storage. At the moment, we do not HAVE ventilated storage for our potatoes that will protect said potatoes from the rats.)

Is it any wonder that I think the rodents are having their revenge?

If you hear of some slowly disintegrating pieces of cheese in the metro Atlanta area, take off your hats, hum "Taps" and make sure someone gives us all a heartfelt eulogy.

Then go on a war against any rat you find.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Oh, rats!

 The title of this piece has nothing to do with a common expression of frustration from Charlie Brown and the Peanuts gang.

Rather, it has to do with literal mice.

It all started when Matthew came running to me one morning, saying, “I saw a rat in the kitchen!” 

I followed him, asked him where he’d seen it, and he pointed towards a corner of the kitchen.  I looked there, couldn’t see it, but I was sure he’d seen something.

Next, I started noticing teeth marks in the bananas we kept out on the counter. 

Finally, while sitting in the living room one evening, I saw a nose, whiskers, eyes and ears poke themselves out from behind our small couch. I said, “Oh, hello. Glad to meet you.” He turned around and ran back behind the couch. 

I nicknamed the creature Jimmy Cagney, as in, “You dirty rat!” (This is probably a good place to mention that Cagney the actor never said, “You dirty rat!” in any of his movies. The closest he came was in the 1932 movie “Taxi!”, where he yelled to his brother’s killer through a locked closet: “Come out and take it, you dirty yellow-bellied rat, or I’ll give it to you through the door!”)

We set out some mousetraps, and one of them caught Jimmy Cagney. 

End of problem, right?

Uh . . .wrong.

I started noticing teeth marks in the bananas a few days later. I begged my husband, can we PLEASE call an exterminator? 

At the same time, we both started seeing rats skittering across the floor. Yes, that was “rats” in plural.

The exterminator came out, explored the house, and informed us that we had rats because he could tell by their droppings. Among other things, he told us that our crawlspace was full of rat droppings. 

Gee, thanks.

He scheduled a date for the team to come out, gave me the cost, which promptly went on the credit card. Sorry, Dave Ramsey, but this was a case where we NEEDED the credit card.

In the next few days and weeks, I saw two rats race around the house, mostly in the living room, dining room, and kitchen. Before I realized there had been rats in the house, I’d found two neatly arranged piles of dryer lint, one in the downstairs bathroom, the other in a corner of the kitchen. (Hey, even rats want comfortable places to sleep.)  I also saw one mouse scurry up the stairs. I don’t know where he/she/it ended up.

When I discovered holes eaten in a pair of my jeans that I’d left in a laundry basket downstairs, I declared war.

I would have been willing to accept unconditional surrender and a humane execution at this point, allowing said rats blindfolds and final cigarettes and maybe a final kiss from a loved one. 

But the final straw came when one rat skittered from behind the small living room couch into a corner of the dining room, skittered back into the living room and under the small couch . . . and then skittered out from under the small couch, towards the big couch — where I was sitting — and headed STRAIGHT FOR MY FEET.

I jumped up, grabbed my iPad, which I was using to chat with my BFF, and ran upstairs. 

That was the moment where I decided I would accept nothing but complete and total annihilation and obliteration.

I named the rats Ben and Willard, after two horror movies from the 1970’s featuring killer rats. I have no idea if they’re both male, both female, or one of each, and I refuse to get close enough to find out. 

They have put teeth marks in my bananas, they have taken a nice big bite out of an apple, and a nice big bite out of a potato. Putting out mousetraps for them did not work. These rats are too smart for that. In fact, they are so smart that they managed to knock down a box of crackers from the top of my pantry! 

They’ve skittered across the kitchen floor under the stove. 

And, on Halloween day, while I was in the bathroom, one of them slithered under the crack in the bathroom door! I gasped and it turned around and went out. (It would have been appropriate if I had squeaked.) 

Well, today, the cavalry has arrived. 

As I write this, the extermination company we hired is going around the house, sealing the entry points and setting traps. They will come back on the 22nd to see how well the traps have worked. 

This time, the rats will be the ones getting it through the door!

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.