I have a new nickname as of 7:07am, CST, August 29th, the year of our Lord 2011: The Slayer.* After several hours of wearing it, I'm becoming a tad cocky.
You see, I single-handedly managed to find the perfect resolution to this little issue. And, it is a killing machine.
It seems, in my quest for an environmentally-friendly, non-dog-poisoning, no-blood-thank-you-very-much solution, I found myself trolling the Internet to determine my best course of action.
As you can imagine, this is not something you have conversation about in polite company. Because it would go something like this:
MommaJ: "Hey, Mom of my son's friend from school! I know you live in the rat capitol of Dallas, AKA Highland Park, and I was wondering how you dealt with your little "issue"."
(Spoken as I pick lettuce from lunch out of my teeth, because that is exactly what someone who would make this statement to another human being would do.)
Other Mom: "I think I have the vapors. Please call an ambulance, cancel the play date our kids were to have, and make sure little Timmy gets to football practice."
Yeah. Better to troll the Internet.
So, after what seemed like viewing and reading about every known form of killing mice/rats known to man, I ran across the death chamber of my dreams.
And, I quote from memory, which is a dicey proposition, a comment about this contraption off the big-box-home-stores website:
"This thing works GREAT! And, since I'm into environmentally-friendly products, I have to give this a thumbs-up. Once the rats are dead, I just chuck them into the empty field behind our house and VIOLA! Lunch for the hawks!!!!"
Mike decided that the whole "chucking" business was only going to occur if the object of the chuck was the garbage can. I, on the other hand, was pondering dead rat bodies on the roof for the red-tail hawk that lives in our hood. Guess who won?
Anyhoo, it seems that rats LOVE peanut butter. They'd probably swim in it were it not for the sticky, thick qualities. And that fact works really well when you bait the back of the electric chamber.
Yes, electric chamber. AKA: that funky black box that sits near the porch, right near the huge gap created by unseasonably dry/hot weather, that has allowed what appears to be a small battalion of rats** to take up residence under our house.
Once the rat smells the peanut butter, it is drawn inward through the door of doom. Then, it finds itself standing on an electrically charged plate, which senses its presence and takes it on an electrically-charged ride out of the realm known as THIS HERE PLANET.
Now, some of you think this sounds absolutely, positively cruel. But, faced with disposing of a shocked body vs. a bloody body? I'm taking shocked every, single, stinking, time.
You also might be wondering "Why in Sam Hill would she be sharing this information?" Well, the answer is two-pronged:
1. I'm betting I'm not the only person in the greater metroplex that has this issue. And, I'd prefer you save your money on exterminators for lunch out with me. The total of my death trap, including batteries: $50. That would be selfish AND cheap reason number one.
2. I was afraid, after posting the first two admissions about our rat issue, that people would be all freaked out about coming to our house. As if rats and mice would be running, nilly-willly, through the house and stop to shake your hand and introduce you to first-cousin "Sal. The one with the missing whisker."
No. I want my house to be a place of peace. So, reason number two: I'm regaining my composure by killing every furry thing with a nasty, long tail that likes peanut butter.
So, please feel free to come over again. Don't worry about scheduling lunch now that I have better things to discuss over enchiladas.
And, by all means, don't resist the urge to call me MommaJ, THE SLAYER!
*Thank you, Nickels! What a supreme compliment!
**OK. Maybe that's overkill. Three we've actually seen. But you know the saying about roaches: "If you see one, there are a thousand somewhere?" Well, I feel the same way about rats.