Ratalogue

Rats are cyclical. They are born, they get in people's houses, and get poisoned by smart shoppers like me. That isn't the end of it, because there is continuity to vermin, the way germs and parasites come out of no where, and have a place in folklore. Like the Pied Piper. Though this is a postmodern slum. In Appalachia.

There is a network of burrows running for miles through the North Hills, and it's communal, used and shared by all breeds of rats, without conflict, aside from the fact that I've been poisoning the bastards. So have most people in the region.

Rats are a recurring pest, and a good quality rat poison will keep the problem under control. But no matter how under control it is, the underground complex of rat caves insures that fresh live rats will resurface in my kitchen sooner or later. Where they munch down the D-Con I put out for them, like a cut glass tray of mints. They eay it, seem to enjoy it, then they buzz off and die. I see no evidence of rats in the house for about six weeks, and the life cycle of rats goes back to work.

I have had this love for rat poison since when I accepted the sad fact that it is the best way to combat the problem. Maybe sadness and success should meet at a big formica table and hash out the details. Then share the pleasure that comes with resolution.