Wednesday, August 08, 2007
I have the life of a small rat on my conscience. First Emma trapped it in the corner of the futon-sofa last night. I shut the door of the living room and left her to it as that seemed okay in the circle-of-life view of things. However, after a night of terror no doubt, the pur but clever cratur was still there this morning, jammed inside the wood frame and out of the cat's reach. Albeit guiltily, I stepped into the breach and hauled off the mattress part of the futon, screeching the whole time. (What is it with women and rodents? I mean, seriously, it's just automatic. Get on the chair and scream.) Anyway, bloody Emma, can she just kill it neatly and cleanly? No, she has to piss around and torture it playfully. (Don't get me started on the casual cruelty of life on this planet.) I could hear the shrieks in the kitchen where I was safely ensconsed on the chair. Next minute, silence. I check the scene. No dead rat. But a nonplussed dopey cat is staring at the radiator. Yes, the rat was jammed in behind it, once again out of reach. Time to call in the cavalry, i.e. The Men Friends. They can't come for over an hour, so I tell the rat - "this is your chance. The cat's upstairs. Here's a bit of cheese. The front door's open. You've got one hour to scarper." Alas, poor Yorick doesn't take the bait. The Men arrive with gloves, flashlight, and a horrible pincer thing. In bits, I hear the last death cries, thinking of Reechipeep. "Here, look at it," says one of the men in true man fashion. I knew I had to. I was responsible. A little body of fur and blood. I guess you have to be tough to live here, but I dream of a gentler place.