Concerning The Alleged Bogeymen In The Attic / by laurel

Jody is convinced - nay, utterly and entirely steadfast in her beliefs - that we have rats living in our house, specifically, in and around the walls of her room. I've yet to hear the critters, but if there's one thing I've learned from both Ratatouille and our previous encounters with houseguests it's that where there's one, there's sure to be more. So I'm inclined to believe her, despite her tendencies toward overdramatizing the situation: "They are like small elephants with FEET and TAILS and NAILS and it sounds like they're IN BED WITH ME and I think we have a hippopotamus living under the house." (To that end, after the first encounter with the creatures, Jody had us convinced that they were, in fact, raccoons because how could anything less massive than the size of a hunting dog deliver such TERRIFYINGLY IMMANENT NOISE! Exclamation point!)

In her tireless quest to convince mankind to be on her side at all times, Jody enlisted the concern and expertise of a certain Mike Hamilton, who has dealt with a pretty significant rat problem himself in the past. Ham's suggestion sounded like a sick hybrid of an Elvis Sandwich and 1940's prison food: "Put a little pan with peanut butter sprinkled with rat poison up in the attic. Oh, they love peanut butter. They won't be able to resist, and then they will be dead."

Alphabetically, "Elvis Death Sandwich" succeeds "Electric Car, The" and precedes "Free iPod Nano! Just FWD This Email To 25 People!" in my mental file folder entitled, "To Good To Be True." And of course the most immediate red flag in his proposed attic genocide is the simple fact that the entrance to the attic is IN MY ROOM. Did you catch the e-shouting there? IN. MY. ROOM. As in, what happens when all those tiny elephants lumber over to my side of the house, and, having died from too much mirth and merriment, begin to rot?


I'm adamant in my position that this, along with convincing me to become a rabid baseball fan, will never happen as long as I have breath in my lungs to protest. But oh, have the emails been flying this morning:

From: Mike Hamilton
To: Laurel and Laurel's Dad (like
that's gonna work, Ham)

Laurel and I are hashing it out over pests at their house. I want to set some rat bait out to kill the rats in the walls that keep Jody up. But Laurel doesn't want them to die in the attic, acquire maggots and smell.

I've got bait, peanut butter and some pans. I may make a trek down there and see if I can talk her into it. Jody's pressing for it!

From: Laurel
To: Mike Hamilton, Jim Dailey

Ham acts innocent. What he wants to do is place this deathtrap at the entrance of the attic, which he neglected to mention, is IN MY ROOM, NEAR MY BED. Dead rats, decomposing flesh, maggots and flies. All mingling harmoniously with my nasal passages while I sleep.


This, like world peace save for divine intervention of some celestial power, WILL. NOT. HAPPEN.

From: Mike Hamilton
To: Jim Dailey, Laurel

You watch, Jim.

Laurel will cave.

Jody and I will talk her into letting me set out some bait and catch the critters.

Laurel sounds tough but--as we both know--she's really just a pushover.


From: Laurel
To: Jim Dailey, Mike Hamilton

Are you seriously challenging me to never, EVER, ever back down, not in one million years, not if we were the last people on earth? Because it sounds to me like you are, and if that's the case, just know that you will not win this one, not now, not ever, not even if Hell froze over, melted, and opened up a vacation resort and casino called "Hot Mama's."

Your call, friend-o.
Seriously. I dare you.