I am not a deep sleeper.
My husband has recently become a snorer.
This doesn't make for a happy sleeping arrangement. He sprawls, doing his best chainsaw and I lay next to him, fists clenched, mumbling things about homicide and trying to cast spells.
I've hopped around, trying to induce him to change positions and shut up. I've told him, You're snoring, in effort to get him to shut up. I've tried ear plugs, but those make me nervous that I'll miss my alarm clock and I don't like hearing my heart beat anyhow.
So some nights, around midnight or 1AM, I end up bedding down in the guest room.
A couple weeks ago, on my way to the bed designated for visitors, I swung through the guest bath—a Jack & Jill number—and heard the most horrifying sounds.
Rats. Big rats. Big, huge rats scuttling through our walls.
I paused to hear their meanderings. I stomped on the floor to prompt their movement. Crickets. They played dead. But even without response of any kind, I'd know what I heard. Vermin. But I was sleepy, had work the next day, and moved along, aiming at dreamland, making a mental note to tell the husband what horrors are making camp in the house we bought.
My mental notes often go unheeded.
A week later, while my mister and I were watching an episode of Bones wherein Temperance handles a rat I remembered: rats!
We have rats, I informed him, I heard them the other night.
No we don't.
Well I heard them.
A few days later we were perched in the same spot and I heard those bastards screwing around in my walls.
I paused whatever was happening on our set, told the husband to shut up, and commanded that he listen.
Shhh! Listen . . . shhh!
Scrape, scrape, scamper, scrape.
See! You hear that? Rats!
Meg, it's not rats.
The hell it isn't. Are you deaf or something?
It's pigeons trying to get up under the eaves.
Those bastards. I am relieved that it's not rats we're talking about, but still—pigeons are the rats of the sky. And roofs.
Honey, you know I don't like killing of animals, yes? He rolls his eyes.
This is different. Get your .22 and shoot the bastards; they're freaking me out and I don't have the patience for a more humane route.
Done. I'll get to that tomorrow.