How did coffee beans spill on the floor? Upon closer examination, it wasn’t coffee at all. Over the past weeks I found bits of avocados nibbled away, while at night they scurried in my attic. RATS!

It all made sense. The vacant house across the street was cleaned out to be sold. Its current furry occupants decided to take up new residence in my house.

I was flooded with images from my kids’ favorite animated movie Ratatouille, where the woman’s house falls apart under the weight of a thousand rats living in her walls. 

I live with a Jack Russell terrier, a breed known for its highly rated ratting abilities, ironically named SocRATes. Even though he caught many rats, we couldn’t keep up with the incoming intruders.

And yet, my prayers seemingly answered, when a man showed up soliciting a pest control service, I politely declined. I didn’t like the poison. 

I left my house to take Socrates out for a walk. When I returned home, I was a gasp!  A rat was eating a banana on my kitchen counter! That was it! 

Running out my front door, I screamed, “COME, BAAAAAACK!!! Sweet angel of death.”

On the spot, I signed up for their services. “Do what you will to win this war,” I declared.

The rat exterminator set the black box bait traps, one in the front and one in the back, assuring me, that there was no threat to my pets.

“Rats are my kryptonite,” I confessed to him.

“Me too,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. 

“Occupational hazard I guess.”

That night, there was a loud rumble in the bushes. Socrates may not have great at catching live rats, but this MacGyver of terriers unlocked that bait box with the precision of a jewel thief.

I rushed Socrates to the emergency pet hospital.

“My dog has ingested rat poison!” I barked.

The nurse looked horrified, “No! Where did he get it?”

Sheepishly, I confessed, “I was desperate. The rats were everywhere. The guy came to my door. It was a sign.”

“Is your dog eating?” the nurse armed with a clipboard glared.

“No, I’ve tried anything to get him to eat.”

“Did you give him chicken?”

“No. Bacon.”

“Bacon flavoring?”

“No, real bacon. Bacon makes everything better.”

“Let’s try this organic dog treat.” She reached into a jar then handed Socrates a tiny bone. He wolfed it down. My heart skipped a beat.

As soon as she left us alone, I scurried over to that jar and grabbed a handful. “Here.”  

Seconds later the nurse returned, “Did you give him more treats?”

How did she know? I looked for hidden cameras.

At this point, I was worried she would call protective dog services on me.

For the next few weeks, Socrates and I made multiple trips back for shots. It didn’t take long for my clever dog to catch on. 

Each time I had to drag Socrates, butt down, wearing the cone of shame across the pet hospital waiting area floor.

He threw his head back and howled, “Nooooo. I’m not going in there! You poke me!”

Alerted, the dogs seated in the waiting room suddenly scrambled for the exit door, dragging their owners behind them.

Finally, this ordeal ended with Socrates receiving a clean bill of health. And the rats? They opened a lovely French restaurant on the other side of town.

The moral of the story: Don’t name your dog after your kryptonite

Live with waffletude