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Thurs­day night. Usu­ally gro­cery night for the ba­sics to get through the week­end; ba­nanas, bread, milk, rat poi­son...

I’m usu­ally a live and let live per­son as far as ro­dents go. I don’t mind shar­ing with one or two, but there’s some­thing big­ger than a mouse in my ceil­ing, and it’s wear­ing tap danc­ing shoes. Sounds like it’s go­ing to party in the pent­house all win­ter.

I’m re­ally re­luc­tant to put out the deadly gran­ules be­cause I have a dog and lots of na­tive birds. I could try recit­ing a rat satire, an an­cient gaelic rhyming chant to drive outMr or Mrs Rat­tus. You may have seen or read the Out­lander time travel romance se­ries by Diana Ga­bal­don, when Roger Wake­field re­cites one in the at­tic; I can’t print it for copy­right rea­sons so I’ve made up my own:

Rats ye make me ratty

In the roof I’ll put me catty Then ye would go, ye would go. Alas I have but a doggy My logic is a lit­tle foggy

But would ye go, ye go.

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