Ratatouille

There's an enormous dead rat on my doorstep. It was left there by a grateful stray cat that I've been feeding for awhile. I appreciate the present, I really do; it's a sweet, well-intended gesture. But it's been there for over 24 hours now, and the blood that leaked from its head has now glued it to the pavement. I have a little alleyway that leads past my back door, and it's seldom used by people. Here the rat lies, testament to the kindness of strangers and the cruelty of cats. Later I will gird my loins (if I can find my gird, or, for that matter, my loins), wrap myself in cling film, put on my ski gloves, snorkel and mask, borrow a hazmat suit from the meth lab next door, and throw the poor dead critter down the hill and into the jungle.

I must write a hundred times on the blackboard, "I am a feminist; I will not play the girl card." It's tricky when it comes to heavy things and icky things, I know, but the girl card is evil. It is wrong. It speaks of weakness where there is really only squeamishness and unwillingness. The girl card allows for the pat on the head, the "there there, don't worry your frantic-haired head about it, little girl," and the next guy to do that is likely to lose a finger.

So, even though the rat has its upward eye open, and there are likely all kinds of vermin on it, in it and around it, even though I'll have to burn my ski gloves, I will not ask some big, strapping man to do it for me. I'll wait until he offers.

Meanwhile, has anyone seen my gird?



Rat Hearse











Rat Cemetery