The rat of amontillado

Actually, I’m assuming—and I will believe—that it’s a mouse, not a rat. But it is some sort of rodent. And it has been scrabbling around in my walls for a couple of months or more, utterly oblivious to every remedy I have tried.

Naturally, I have deployed anti-rodent dances, banged on the walls and ceiling with sticks, put out poisons, laid venomous curses on it, threatened it, and served it with formal eviction papers. None of which was in the least efficacious. Probably, I should have given it Lydia Pinkham’s Medicinal Compound, which is guaranteed to be efficacious in every case.

Last week, I noticed that the trash had become a bit whiffy, so I took it out. The, erm, delicate, erm, aroma lingered, but I figured that was scented air particles floating about and that it would dissipate soon. Next day it seemed fine and I forgot about it.

Then it got hot. Really hot. And suddenly, Eau de Whiffeé returned. With a vengeance. Think nuclear retaliation and total annihilation of the earth.

And my trash can was empty of all but a few paper bits.

Fortunately, when it’s really hot, a person can keep the windows open all the time. I did so, and began the Investigation to End All Investigations. Eventually, I narrowed down the source to one particular area. . . of wall. Yes, wall.

While I am, on the one hand, thankful that Rodent finally decided to vacate my premises, I am, on the other hand. . . um, shall we say displeased? that it did so by dying in my freakin’ wall.

One reminds Gentle Readers that a similar event occurred a few years back with Grandma’s cat, although with a much more positive outcome. One hopes that Poe’s cask of amontillado had a better fate as well. And one wishes despair and agony on Rodent and all his or her descendants unto the nth generation. Gaaaaaaah.

Posted by wordsmith

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