It just keeps getting worse...

You ever been in an old, midwestern-style barn? The kind with a hayloft with a wooden floor? You ever been on the main floor of one of those barns while barn cats were playing in the loft?

It makes a certain sound. A scurrying, scrabbling sound. With the occasional thump.

I'm hearing that same sound right now, but I'm not in a barn, and it sure ain't cats. I know what's in our attic/crawlspace, but I've never heard it before. Fucking rats. Having a goddam rat rugby match up there.

I saw one run along the top of the fence one night shortly after we moved in. I had a repairman up in the attic/crawlspace once, and he pointed out the presence of rat shit. And Sparky killed one in a twisted incident last summer that involved shrieking children and me standing in driveway with a P22 and a Surefire, dripping sweat and ready to open fire.

I'm sure they've been around, but they've stayed appropriately under the radar. Until tonight.

I don't have a fear of rats. But I sure as shit don't like them. I really don't like the fact that it sounds like they're large and lively and plentiful eight feet above my head.

I have less than a week left here. There's nothing we can do about them, and the landlord isn't going to take any action. I'm just going to sit here and cringe and hope the leaking, weak ceiling doesn't collapse and dump a torrent of rats into my lap in the next 100 hours.

EDIT TO ADD: Oh, yes - I am having a very hard time resisting the urge to be the Worst Wife Ever. Mr. Abby is sleeping the sleep of the jetlagged, but I am sorely tempted to wake him up, explain the situation, and whine until he goes up the ladder with a flashlight. I won't - I'm not that mean - but that doesn't mean I don't kind of want to...