When someone in my house reports a problem — “Dad, the ceiling is leaking!” “Dad, I hot glued my face to my science project!” — my first instinct is to ignore it.
(Full disclosure: that’s my second, third and fourth instinct as well.)
I figure the adhesive will eventually loosen, and a waterfall in the middle of the living room will make for a whimsical feature when it comes time to sell, right?
But when my son yelled out, “Dad, is that a rat?” I got out of my chair.
Not because I am a man of action. I got out of my chair only because I thought there was a million percent chance that whatever he was looking at outside the side door of our house was not a rat. And I would get to look like a responsible adult without having to do anything or — importantly — spend any money.
I was wrong on both counts.
I looked out the window of the side door and sure enough, darting back and forth between our neighbor’s rock wall and our garbage cans was a rat. Wait, a rat? Beady eyes and a long tail that rivaled my high school mullet in awfulness. Yes, a rat.
Do the suburbs get rats? I tried to ask Alexa this question, but she couldn’t understand me because I was simultaneously screaming in horror.
