The good thing is, I know for sure my house isn’t sinking . . .
Great men have dates with destiny. I have a date with Mr. Pack Rat. The exterminator, not the wee beastie itself, with whom I have a long acquaintance.
We share Southern Arizona with pack rats, but we do not want them in our house. When we first moved to Tucson we lived in a rented house that turned out to be infested with them. They lived inside the walls. We could hear them chewing on the cable as Larry King flickered in and out. When we decided to buy a house we sought one out that didn’t have pack rats . . . other amenities were secondary.But now, five years later, we have one, or rather, we hope it’s just one. And he’s in the garage, not the house. But the garage is not that far from the house, and those damn things breed like . . . pack rats. Mr Pack Rat, the exterminator, promises to deliver us from evil, and his traps are in the garage as I write.
You’d think this wouldn’t be a big deal. We have a king snake on the property, gila monsters, innumerable tarantulas. Coyotes, javelina, bobcats, and mountain lions traipse through our yard. Cactus wrens think they own our house, and scold us when we wander outdoors. As I floated in the pool one night I saw a bat skim by within five feet of me, scooping up mouthfuls of water. And all this is fine . . . these animals are part of the joy of living here!
Pack rats, too, I guess, so long as they stay on their side of the fence. Mr. Pack Rat, I hope you know your trade.
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