Elves And Fairies and VICIOUS ATTACK RODENTS, pt 2

I realized almost immediately that standing on my bed, knife in hand, was bound to get me nowhere good so I sat down on the edge with my feet dangling over the side and then I had a very surreal flashback to 1989 and watching Pet Cemetery at my friend Bridget’s birthday party. I’d managed to skip most of the really terrifying parts by cowering in the vacant kitchen and pretending to get a snack which probably fooled, um, let’s count: NO ONE as I distinctly remember mounds upon mounds of hot dogs and this kid right here doesn’t eat hot dogs, no ma’am, have you ever seen the Discovery Channel special on meat processing? No? Well you should stop watching porn and watch something educational now and again.

Now I realize that Gage and his desire to play with YOU, if You is really me, doesn’t so much relate to a Rodent of Unusual Size careening around the corner into the kitchen but cut me some slack, I’d just yanked a knife from between my mattress and stood screaming on my bed for 4.5 seconds and there was probably some residual traumatization which hastened along some really unsettling flashbacks to that Gage kid hiding under Grampa’s bed with that handy dandy scalpel and look at the delicate achilles heel! Fresh for the cutting!

So just to ascertain that there was no Gage hiding under my bed or maybe even some leftover Rat Friends who were too drunk to leave the party, I laid on my belly and scooted my torso over the edge where I made some loud noise and waived my knife around in the black depths because I figure Under The Bed Things are afraid of loud noises and knife waiving. I then attempted to peek my little eyeballs under there but the thing about my bed is that it’s wicked far off the ground so I ended up very ungracefully planting both my hands on the wooden floor which gave me a very clear view of the Under The Bed Area but if I’d needed to, say, react quickly like bunny, things could have ended very badly.

Once I’d righted myself, feet planted on the floor this time, I walked silently out of the bedroom and into the archway of the darkened kitchen. Both of The Demonspawn were eerily still on opposite sides of the refrigerator for what I can only assume was a strategically coordinated double-team move designed to give them more face time with their new live toy. Not even the sudden glare of the overhead light was enough to startle them though it definitely took away the creepy green-gold glowing eye thing they’d had going on.

As I was tip toeing into the kitchen, Llama made a quick paw swiping move under the fridge and I showed how much I supported him by jumping on top of the nearest kitchen chair. I didn’t want him to think that my trust for him had waned, I wanted it clear that I was giving him full reign to find that rat and tear his insides apart with his saber kitty teeth and tiger claws. But his paw came back empty and I suppressed my vocal disappointment by scooting the chair across the rug to the cabinet under the sink, a cabinet far, far away from that refrigerator where I keep my tile cleaner with bleach and my sink cleaner with bleach and my whole gallon jug of bleach because one can never have too much bleach, do not judge me.

But there, in the back of the cabinet, was the industrial size bottle of pet-friendly bug killer and I rationalized that rats were like bugs, only bigger and more mammalian-like and without those crunchy exoskeletons and maybe if someone just did the math in her head and said the bug is THIS big so I use THIS much pesticide so if the rodent is THAT big then I use THAT much pesticide and voila! No more rodent!

I really should stop listening to myself when I rationalize these things because just two weeks ago I rationalized that since my weekend had given me a bit too much sun and hence a wee bit of the peeling action, perhaps I would just speed up the peeling process by pumicing my forehead. Note to self: do not use pumice on delicate forehead skin as will only leave area with an unattractive mottled look that will force others to ask if you’d been recently mauled and burned with a strangely shaped curling iron.

But rationalize I did, which explains how at 1am I found myself crouching on top of a chair and pointing the spray nozzle of the Pet Friendly! pesticide directly under the fridge, turning my head and pressing the nozzle which was simultaneously met with a really high pitched rat scream and a lot of bumping noises but no actual rat appearance. I figure if someone sprayed roach killer in my face I’d scream too but don’t you go thinking I was starting to feel sympathetic to it’s plight, I was only hoping it would gimp home and tell all his friends about the crazy lady in 4D with the spray fire that burns out your eye-holes.

Five minutes later with no sign of Mr. Bojangles and I was so over the whole rodent killing thing because I went to school for communications, not The Proper Methods of Rodent Extermination and HELLO, don’t people get paid to get rid of these things? Isn’t that someone’s job? Wait, I know who’s job it is! It’s my landlords job!

So I hopped off my chair and kind of skittered back to my bedroom because it was late and I was tired and what if that had been my one night to sleep and it had been ruined by the sudden squealing appearance of an overgrown (and vicious) hamster?

Don’t think I didn’t call my landlord and leave him a really special message about that.