Oh my god have I got a story for you. It involves rats.
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My mother had an experience this weekend that, if I didn’t know her, I would swear was not true.
It all started when a large brown rat came into the kitchen.
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The useless family dog, Rufus, alerted my parents to an alien mammalian presence late Saturday night via a combination of almost-pointing and high-maintenance panic.
It was coming from the pantry.
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Apparently this has happened once before: a single rat comes in through the back door, the dogs practically climb chairs in fear (re:useless), the traps didn’t work, but Mom was able to usher it back out the door after a brief stint inside. Not this time.
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My mom, flanked by the useless pitbull, opens the pantry door and starts pulling out supplies. Rustling indicates the rat is moving around the floor of the room, so she slowly takes everything out of the pantry one item at a time, ready for, well, anything.
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She checks every canister for chew holes, rat poop, and a rat as she empties the pantry. Finally, all that’s left is one cardboard box.
The box rustles.
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