He is huge. And mangy. He's so big that he can't run. He just kind of lopes along like he's out for a rat stroll, heading to dinner. And although Chris thinks he is kind of endearing, I have just been more or less horrified by him, and the fact that the kids want to chase him, and was kind of worried that he might have rabies or something. So today, I come back from the grocery store with the three beans, to find that our housecleaners caught him. They've got him in a box of size 5 Car Race pull ups. Seriously. And they want to know what do with him?
I don't know what to do with him. I keep calling it him. I have no idea if it's a him or a her, and I I have no idea to do with it. Feed him poison? Not top on my list of things to do in front of my kids on a Tuesday. Call the humane society for a pick up? Not so sure they're gonna bite on that one. After a quick tete a tete on what to do, I decide I still have no idea. So what does he do? He walks the box out to our back patio, and HURLS it down into the woods. Three stories down. Yeah, I know.
Um. I don't know what the right answer was here: feed him poison, call the humane society, or hurl him down from the patio. Nothing seemed quite right. Ideas?
Of course, I have since had many pangs of guilt, feeling like I should go down and retrieve the poor little bugger, nurse him back to his full rat glory, and set him free. And that dying in a box of size 5 Car Race pull ups is no way to go, and far more inhumane (if he indeed survived the fall), than feeding him poison.
But as Chris said, he will probably just chew his way out of the box, and be back up in the front garden by dinnertime.