I can write about this now because you are gone. And my mother has been so vocally ambivalent about my apartment, I was afraid to let her know that we found you living under our fridge.
What were you doing being so noisy, chewing on metal? We sealed up all the holes, made sure no others of your breed could gain entry.
We were mortified, as were our landlords. Who has a RAT in their apartment? Living, as it were, in the insulation under the 1950's Kelvinator model fridge? We were grossed out, violated by your presence.
Chris shone a flashlight on your whiskered face. He offered to show you outside. He asked you to leave. "Come on, rattie," he said. "I'll show you how to get outside and join your friends."
But you did not understand. After a couple of days, we thought you had mercifully left, but then you took a bite of a tomato on the counter and dragged the grapes behind the stove. That is when we brought out the poison.
We made you the finest sandwiches of organic peanut butter, twix and brie on a tortilla. Oh yeah, and poison. We felt so guilty at the thought of you, Rattie, in the insulation, shuddering in death throes as your blood refused to coagulate. Then we fed you more poison sandwiches.
We tried not to anthropomorphise you, and even resisted giving you a name like Murray, because we knew we would find you dead one day (hopefully not long after the fact) and feel horrible guilt. When you refused to die of the poison, I got used to the idea of you living there quietly, eating gourment poison sandwiches, listening to us prepare dinner and hoping to rescue some crumbs.
At five this morning, some subtle creak woke me up. It must be something in the human makeup, Rattie, that does not tolerate creatures infiltrating our homes. Because both Chris and I woke up to hear you stumbling into the living room, eventually collapsing beside the speaker.
Chris had promised he would dispose of you, but you were not quite dead yet. He closed the door, and, er...I guess he "helped you along on your journey." to the trash.
Goodbye, Rattie. Between shudders of primal revulsion, I think I will miss you.