As I was digging along the fence line, I turned up what looked like a little toy pig. Figuring that it was some kind of throw away from the neighbor kids, I reached down to pick it up when holy freakin' ratones I realized the damn thing was breathing. This was no plastic play thing; this was a neon pink, fresh from the womb, eyes still sealed shut, bona fide rat baby. Ew! Make that a double ew!
I actually contemplated not killing the darn thing. Watching its tiny blushed body wriggling and its mouth gasping as if searching for its momma's teat, the creature looked like a cross between a piglet and one of those aborted fetuses that you see on posters carried outside abortion clinics, gruesome yet identifiably a life form. I then reminded myself that this innocent was going to turn into full grown, disgusting vermin. I charged off to grab a bucket of water.
Killing is never pleasant for me, regardless of the victim (except for fleas; I have a fetish for catching them and popping their heads off with my nails). But this rat problem needs to end. I'm sick of those fat, hairy toadies sneaking into the chicken coop or nibbling every damn apple on the tree. Why can't they eat the ones on the ground? It's put a serious damper on my pie baking this summer. So off with their heads! Not really. I wouldn't be able to take the blood.
To the bucket it went. I knew there were probably more in that invisible burrow, so I dug a bit deeper and found a couple more who were equally as wretched looking as the first. As I stooped to scoop up the last one, I heard a terrible squeal that reminded me of the voice of the scientist in The Fly crying "Help me!" after he had swapped his body with the bug. So much for no blood. I blame it on the shovel.
You can call me a baby murderer, just don't call PETA. Ugh.
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