The rats continue to plague me. They skitter. They are not paying rent. They scratch. They are disturbing my sleep. They poo my attic. Sporadic wafts of rat poo interrupt my days. Not a great smell.
The exterminators came out. For thousands of dollars, they would suck up the old insulation in the attic and spray down new. The exterminators asked me if I minded that a few rats could—they were very specific in word choice—could be swept up in the process. Fine, I said. I’m not looking for you to relocate them. They nodded in agreement.
That night, I dreamt baby rats ran across my arms and legs. A nibble here. A nibble there. I woke up covered in tiny… scratches. I definitely did that in my sleep.
I have added to my karmic debt—but who’s kidding who, I wanted the rats gone at whatever price.
Bad choice. The rat gods have determined to make me pay. The rats haunt my attic and my sleep. Last night’s sleep score was 56. Out of a 100. And that’s not the lowest sleep number on my Fitbit scorecard since the rat fiasco.
I want a gun but… everyone keeps telling me it’s not so great an idea.
Something must be done.
(Many thanks for the photo by capri23auto from Pexels.com)
Is this a true story?
Unfortunately, yes. It is very true.