The End…

Caution: This post contains material that the sensitive eye (or heart) may not find agreeable.

You will be elated to learn that we’ve (hopefully and finally) come to the 4th and last chapter of our Rat Story.

Scott came home last night with a brand new rattrap. With a snarling eye on the contraption, I gave the purchaser a speech about the inadequacy of these black crocodile-teeth traps to capture whatever-it-is underneath the house. He silenced me kindly (yet only temporarily) by sharing a morsel of unwelcome information: on a recent late night trip to the kitchen he, the insulted purchaser of the trap, had an accidental meeting with a furry thing on the kitchen floor. The Thing (with a tail) rapidly scuttled across the floor and vanished behind the dishwasher.

At this point in the conversation, I freaked out completely and threw an appropriate estrogen-induced tantrum: “Wh…WHA… WHAT?????!!! You’re kidding right? NO??? No! NO! NOOOO! He invaded us! I cannot, will not have That Thing in the house! He’ll eat the baby! He’ll bite the boys! He’ll get you – he SHOULD get YOU! Off with his head! Off with yours too for that matter! Etc.etc.etc…”

My explosion was adequate fuel to ignite the boys’ hunting instincts and they cheerfully joined the “conversation”:
“I’ll sneak up behind him and grab him by the tail!” planned Devan.
“Ja, Ja, Ja!” chimed in Martin.
“I’ll chop off his head and cut his tummy open!” exclaimed my ever bloodthirsty Neels. (I knew I could count in him to join my be-heading campaign.)
“Ja, Ja, Ja!” supported Martin.
“I’ll catch him in THIS!” announced Piekie, holding up an egg carton – his favorite toy for the day.
“Ja, Ja, Ja!” followed Martin.
“I’ll set up the trap in the kitchen tonight” Scott offered calmly.

So he did.
It snapped.
It beheaded the vile creature.
It was a rat.
It was dead.
Victory!!
And Scott walks away as my forever, never to be insulted again, hero. (He told me to add this line.) Epilogue: So you may wonder with me, how did the trap under the house fail TWICE? “Cockroaches on steroids” the hero of the story explains. He’s seen ‘em. They’re huge. A whole army of ‘em. Crawling around in our crawl space. Ughhhhh. I feel a(nother) tantrum coming on…