Murder She Didn't Write

I wasn't sure I wanted to blog about this today. It's grisly. And sick.

There was a murder at my house last night.

I was in my daughter's room, watching Dolly Parton in the classic, "Christmas in the Smokies," and was singing and dancing along, driving her dog, Skylar, in fits. She hates it when you act like you're having fun and she'll start barking and biting at your ankles which only adds to the excitement.

I went out to get a smoke, and BF tells me he hears the mousetrap go off.

I go to investigate.

I walk upon the site where I had set the trap (I couldn't stand the constant pitter-patter of little feet running through my kitchen every night, completely distracting me from creating my masterpieces), and I froze.

The trap was behind the stove. It was overturned. And beside it, not in the trap, was a baby freaking rat.

I'm not talking those cute little mousey-things, I'm talking a real live freaking rat the size of a 3-month-old kitten.

Now this is the part that gets grisly. If you are squeemish, or have them as pets (god forbid), don't read on, but instead, go watch Dolly Parton's Christmas in the Smokies. Laugh. Sing. Dance. And pretend you never happened upon my blog.

Anyway, the rat is not dead, but stunned, and isn't moving. He/she/it is not scared of me. In fact, it looks dead, but I know it's not.

I scream for BF, who is quite annoyed at me bothering him. In his words, "This had better be worth it. I'm watching poker."

I ignore his remark, and keep screaming his name.

He comes. I point. And I say, "It's a freaking rat!"

I'm like in shock, and the first thing I do is grab some bug spray nearby and start spraying. I'm not sure at this point what was going on in my head to do that, but I did it.

BF looks incredulously at me and says, "You can't kill it with that. Hand me a knife."

Okay, back up, I love animals, no matter what kind they are. Yes, I have mousetraps, but you try wiping your counter and find mouse turds..you'll change your mind in a hurry. And you try having all your silverware sitting in a container on a table because they're in your silverware drawer. And you try sitting on the toilet, doing your business, and one runs over your feet.

And you try sitting on the computer every single night, exactly the time when everyone else is asleep, and the house is quiet except for the hum of the heater, and you hear them running all over the place. The dogs go crazy, everyone wakes up...it's not a peaceful down home feeling.

So, anyway, I do have mousetraps. But, it's quick. I'm not sure about painless, but it's quick enough that they don't let out shrieks of "Save me! I'm dyyyyyyying...."

So, keep in mind that I really do love all creatures, no matter how ugly.

So, BF tells me to give him a knife. I start getting upset. He says, "Well, you want it killed, don't you?"

I'm delirious at this point.

I hand him the knife, and run to my daughter's bedroom, and bawl. But, before I get there, I hear the blow. And the shrieks.

I fly into the room, slam the door, and bawl. My daughter wants to know what's going on. I can't talk. I can't do anything but stand there, bawling, and mumbling incoherently. I have lost it.

I finally tell her that BF is in the kitchen stabbing a rat.

She is mortified. I am crying. The dogs I've grabbed and put in the room with us are barking like something's going on and they want to be a part of it.

I open the door. I am reaaaaal spastic at that point, and I hear the stabbing. Over and over and over. It's like how much body does a small rat have anyway????

And then it's over. But, I don't know it. My daughter has run out of the house to a friend's house, and I'm sitting on the bed, rocking and crying. BF walks in.

"I got him."

I can't look at him. He's a murderer.

"You wanted me to get him, didn't you?"

I don't speak.

I rock back and forth.

He can't understand why I'm reacting like this.

I can't understand why he had to use a knife to do it.

I can't talk.

"You all right?"

Still rocking.

BF gets up and goes back to his poker show.

"Is there any blood?"

"No, I cleaned it up," he yells.

A brutal massacre. In my kitchen.

I haven't been the same since.

I'm trying to write.

I'm trying to snap out of it.

I can't.