The Unwanted Houseguest

I love animals—really I do. I've been an ethical vegetarian going on 18 years. I give to animal rights and welfare groups when Kelly and I can afford to. And I struggle, living in an area where the average Joe lives to hunt and fish, not to get angry when pressured to "just give it a try."

Yep, I'm passionate about animals. But, that doesn't mean I care about them all equally. Insects don't get much concern from me. Spiders, unless I know for sure they're harmless, I kill on site without the slightest hint of shame. If snakes disappeared from the planet tomorrow, I'd be happier and calmer. And rodents? They're in a league of their own. For years, Zoë has been begging for a hamster—or a guinea pig, or even a mouse or a rat. But it isn't going to happen on my watch. No way, no how.

Mind you, when we've had problems with rodents, I've been compassionate in dealing with them. Rather than conventional mouse traps, which I liken to cruel leg-hold traps used for coyotes, I've relied upon ultrasonic devices and catch and release traps, much as I dread emptying the latter. Still, if forced to choose between my PETAesque leanings and my paranoia of the order Rodentia, I fall unequivocally on the side of survival. Cornered by a nasty, plague-carrying ball of fur, with no way out and a shovel in my hand, I guarantee you'd I'd be swinging steel with purpose in very short order. I'm not going to stomp my foot, since he's germ-covered and gross. But I'm not going to mess around, either.

It's a ridiculous understatement to say I'm no Willard. In that context, consider if you will the events that unfolded yesterday morning...

Stepping into our garage, I noticed there were hand washables in our utility sink which I'd started and forgotten about several days before. Since I'd done nothing but fill the sink and add detergent, I proceeded to scrub the clothes. And as I did, I noticed protruding from one of Zach's beanies something that looked like a rather thick band of elastic. Shoot, I thought, it must be coming unsewn. So, I pulled on it—and then nearly passed out. Because it wasn't a piece of elastic.

It was a rat's tail.

I must have shrieked rather loudly, girly-man that I am, because through two closed doors, Zane heard me and began barking like mad. Within seconds, Zienna was in the garage asking me what was wrong. Her presence snapped me back into reality, giving my stunned brain a much-needed jump start. And as my senses resumed functioning, I was able to see that this was no finger tip-sized pet store mouse. The hefty tail was connected to a body roughly five inches long—a body that had been floating in soapy water for who knows how long and was now bloated. And decomposing. And as I took all this in, I suddenly realized that the water had a foul stench about it and that brownish muck was clinging at its surface to the sides of the formerly white sink.

Then I remembered that I'd been sloshing my hands around in that foul brew for a good two or three minutes. Gulp.

That was it. My breakfast was now begging for release, leaving me doing what I could to hide the gagging from Zienna. Fearful she would peer into the sink, I distracted myself by hurriedly luring her into the house. Then, just wanting the experience to be over, I mustered up every ounce of courage inside me and snapped on some rubber gloves. Still shaking, I headed back in to the garage, disposed of the creepy little corpse, and then alternately flooded the sink with bleach, about a can's worth of Lysol, and gallons of hot water. And for good measure, I went over it—repeatedly—with disinfectant wipes. Finally, I tossed the stopper and what had once been laundry into the trash, where they belonged. There was no way I was keeping them, not considering where they'd been!

This weekend, I intend to hit the garage on poopy patrol. In our last residence in the Bay Area, a family of mice nested in the main heater duct, where they became trapped before rotting, filling every square inch of the house with the most gut-lurching stench imaginable. So, I want to be absolutely sure that the guy who committed hari-kari in our sink was alone, not hunting for a family.

But when I do, you can be darned sure I'll have a shovel in hand.