Thursday, October 22, 2015

It’s a Trap!

I am the protector of our home. Whether it be someone who wants to steal our TV, or the same guy who wants to steal our TV two days later, I feel it’s my responsibility to make sure only invited guests enter our house. I’m talking to you, vampires.

I gleefully kill millions and millions of ants every spring. It creeps out Diana to watch me laugh maniacally while I disregard insecticide warning labels and just pump that poison all over our house.

Imagine my horror when I realized we had rats sneaking around outside. I was eating breakfast with the boys when Luca pointed to our back porch and shouted, “Chipmunks!”

Stupidly, I said, “Those aren’t chipmunks. Those are rats!”

Rat talk became the topic du jour for anyone who would listen. I tried to explain telling everyone we had rats would make them think we’re gross. Which had little or no affect.

My neighbor Paul, overhearing Luca’s constant rodent chatter, beaconed me next door. He explained that since we lived in Evanston, buying heavy duty rat poison was looked down upon by the Subaru driving set. He showed me a humane rat trap you could buy at the local Ace. It was a little cage with a door that dropped when a little Remy was lured in by cheese. He then explained he chucks the humanely caught rats into the lake to drown. He was kidding. I think.

I set up the trap in the garage next to the massive pile of rat poop we found. I placed a nice brie from Whole Foods inside and waited.

Luca, in particular, was obsessed with catching a rat. I explained over and over that when we caught one he could not stick his finger inside or pet it or apply any human qualities to it or give it little white gloves to wear.

I wasn’t quite sure what I was going to do when I caught one. I didn’t think I could chuck it into the lake. I also didn’t think I could actually touch a trap with a rat inside. Diana really wanted me to release it at Chicago’s NRA headquarters. But if there is a better way to get shot, I haven’t heard it.

The first few mornings, I’d pray a little prayer and poke my head inside the garage. No rats. The next few mornings, no rats. Then I stopped checking.

I got a text from Diana a week or so later. It read “We caught a squirrel!”

I immediately called her and asked that she feed the squirrel to Grover. He loathes them so. With their constant chattering from our fence. Always taunting. Always taunting.

She refused and released it back to our fence. I asked what Luca’s reaction was and she said his head exploded.

I’m fearful our rats have moved on and I will not get to murder anything for a while. But based on the constant trail of crackers the boys leave in our garage, I know I’m wrong.

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