I went and checked my mail the other day. Big news, I know. On my way back from the front of the house, I discovered a dead rat on my walkway. I hadn’t checked my mail in well over a week; I had no idea how long that thing was lying there.
I skirted around it and went back inside. Normally, my plan of attack is to ignore my problems until they go away. Unfortunately, this time, I had to do something because my brother and his dog were coming over and would walk down that path. I knew Butters would try to eat the thing, and then there would be no way that dog was coming anywhere near me ever again.
I didn’t want that to happen to us, so I knew I had to take action. It took several hours for me to muster up the courage and come up with an actual plan of attack. I grabbed my (disposable) implements, took a deep breath and went out to take care of the job. Only when I rounded the side of the house, I noticed something was different.
The fucking thing had moved.
I know, logically, that it’s dead and that it didn’t move on it’s own, but at that moment I was freaked out. I felt my courage drain out of me. I stood there with my implements hanging limply at my sides staring down at the rat wondering if it just “looked dead”.
Suddenly my implements weren’t good enough to dispose of a zombie rat, so I retreated back to my place and accepted defeat. Only I couldn’t just leave it there and I didn’t have enough time to get tanked up in order to restore my courage. Also, that would be awkward when my brother showed up to have a normal dinner with me and realized that I was completely shitfaced on a Sunday afternoon.
So I did what most girls would do in that situation; I called a guy for help.
I texted my neighbour and asked if he was at home. He responded and said no but then immediately called to see if I was okay. I told him about my problem and he told me not to worry about it and that he’d take care of it. 20 minutes later, he got home and I got a text saying “It’s gone”.
God you George!!