We cannot do it. We cannot live in the same apartment. One of us has to leave, and, since I have moved 3 times since January, they have to go. Also, I promised my wife I would make them leave. I can't let her down. We are living in a war-like state against the rats.
The conflict between us hit a new high this week. Thanks to a recent gift from my the Director of my school I now have roughly 10 old-school traps. The kind that snap shut with guillotine-like efficiency and have a very unique sound. Also, the kind that can take off your hand/fingers if you are not careful. They are like rat land mines- they cannot distinguish friend from foe, so you have to watch out.
With the help of our roommate Kirby, we opened the cabinet. Kirby looks at the rat for a minute while we are bombarding him with questions then says, "Oh, he is still alive". What? What? WHAT?!!! Will nothing remove these vermin from our apartment and satisfy Katie's bloodlust?
The rat sprang to life. He jumped six inches into the air (see above- he is levitating!), then frantically ran round the cupboard searching for his escape. We tried to strike him down, but, like Neo in The Matrix, he dodged our blows. Then he turned. He squared himself to us and jumped out of the cupboard, then charged Katie and Kirby's wife, Danielle. The ladies who had been so giggly as their husbands worked were now thrown into the battle.
The rat raced through our living room, trying earnestly to save his rat-life. We chased him with broomsticks, swinging them like Roman Centurions. The Rat was fast- he would be under the TV stand, then sprint under a couch. Kirby started hurling his shoes at the rat like a Marine throws grenades. In the background there were squeals and laughter from Katie and Danielle accompanied by shouts of "he ran there"! They were our spotters.
We cornered him under the bookshelf. We jabbed and we poked, and I am pretty sure we scored some blows. I tightened my grip on my broomstick and told everyone to back up. I wound up and swung the broom stick. I certainly hit something, but it was more likely the tile floor, because my broom stick snapped in my hands. Like an MLB pitcher had sawed off my bat. I dropped the short piece and grabbed the longer piece, now even more enraged by our inability to end this rat's life. As Katie was shining a light under the book case and Kirby was attempting to spear Templeton, I bear-hugged the bookcase and tried to move it so we could have more access.
The rat finally ran out, charging us again, but he must have been disoriented from battle and blood loss. I scored a direct hit across his back. Two more and he stopped moving. Just like that. We were all sweating, panting and deliriously happy. We posed for pictures with out victim.