Rat on My Shoes

When I was living in Florida with my husband, I was convinced our ranch house had a haunted stove. We heard banging around the sides and back at night. There was a smell and odd movements (worse than my cooking rituals). We found that there was a wall opening behind the stove. We though it had to be a rodent. He figured it brushed past pots and pans to find food and look for a warm place to rest. Then he placed rat poison stations back behind the stove. After a few days, the rattling stopped. We thought our exhuming of a dead carcass was soon to follow.

A few days later our front door was open. Through the screened porch that separated the

front steps from the rest of the house, I saw hubby talking with a neighbor.

I left the door open and enjoyed the breeze as I tidied up the living room. When I wiped the mirror on the wall where the shoe rack was, I stopped cold. At the bottom of the rack

my set of old loafers sat. Sitting right on top of them was a perfectly formed, furry rodent. Paws stretched ahead and tail, neatly curled behind. It looked like a a novelty gag you’d find in the Halloween store.

I darted out the front door, swearing at my practical joking Canadian

husband! “This is ridiculous—putting a fake rat on my shoe!” I yelled.

My husband entered, smirking, and knelt. Taking the tail in one hand simply said. “Oh, that’s where he went! Its real you know”. He took it outside, swung it around a few times and then tossed it into an abandoned lot. I screamed. Then in French, he said. “If the poison didn’t do the trick, your shoes always will”. Thinking I couldn’t translate. Since then, he always insists my shoes go closest to the door.

We’ve never had any rodent problem since.