Previously, I mostly lived alone. With the minor exception of two rats (“Rats?!” You cry, in shock and horror, “Rats,” I respond.) whom I adopted last year from a lab that didn’t want them anymore.
The ladies (for ladies they were) lived with me quite contentedly, until they recently decided that what would be Lots of Fun would be to get all old and sick. I disagreed, and said that if they continued this inapporpriate behavior, I would have no choice but to take Very Strong Measures. Well, they did thus continue, and I settled upon Saturday as their Day of Reckoning.
Now, when one embarks upon a Day of Reckoning, with the elimination of certain disobedient creatures in mind, one must needs have capable allies. Like a BB gun, or a nice heavy book. Such was not the case with me, for - believe what you will - I am not a brute. No, this was not a job I could do myself. I would need the assistance of persons skilled and experienced in the eliminatory arts. So I contacted a local, who called herself by the ominous epithet of “The Veterinarian,” and arranged a meeting with her.
Shortly before the appointed hour, I parked my car in the darkened garage, and walked slowly toward the stairwell. The sudden glow of a lighter in the darkness, accompanied by a raspy cough, alerted me that I was not alone.
“You’re late,” said a voice out of the darkness, and as I peered around a crookedly parked SUV, I caught a glimpse of her. Clothed in a dark trenchcoat, a fedora pulled low over her eyes, she puffed a lungful of rancid smoke my way.
I didn’t respond to her observation. I was not, in fact, late. Clearly I was later than she, but we had agreed on midnight, and it was now only 11:55. She was trying to throw me off my guard, probably with intent to haggle me up to a higher price for the job I had in mind. I would not be moved.
“Are you The Veterinarian?” I asked, foolishly. Who else could she be? The Vet was known to work alone (she didn’t trust others with her business, knowing that it was a line of work in which one could easily be double-crossed). She would never have sent another to conclude a contract.
But I had asked, and she responded with a growled “Who wants to know?”
This was getting stupid. “Look,” I said. “We both know why I’m here. Do you want the job?”
She coughed again, and chewed her soggy cigar. “Would it be worth my while?”
“I can give you fifty.”
“Fifty dollars? For TWO? I’ve never worked for so little.” She seemed insulted by the very suggestion.
“Two, yeah, but they’re little - you can batch 'em,” I argued. “Look, I’ve had cheaper offers elsewhere, but I know you do good work, and I want this done clean. Nothing left behind, if you catch my drift.”
She considered the offer. It seemed I had soothed her pride somewhat. “Well, I’m not used to such pathetic pay, but things have been slow lately - you know how it is, nobody wants to knock off the family dog during the holidays; upsets the kiddies and all. So maybe we can make a deal on this. Maybe I’ll do it.”
“Maybe?” I asked. I was looking for some measure of assurance that I wasn’t wasting my time.
“Bring them to this address.” She scrawled a street and number on a wrinkled old store receipt she had drawn from her pocket. You bring the cash, I’ll see about maybe helping you out with your problem. And I’ll do it clean, like you said."
I took the note, nodding my understanding. “I’ll bring them by.”
“Now go. You leave first,” she instructed me. She apparently didn’t want to be watcdhed as she made her getaway.
I turned and slowly walked away, never looking back in her direction.
So it was done. Fifty dollars later, and I’m a free woman. No more scratching and scuffling in the dead of night. No more cage cleaning, or bottle filling, or feeding. I came home from the Vet’s office, and scrubbed the cage clean of every foul odor, every spot of besmirchment, every indication that ever a creature lived in there (let alone, two).
If only I could scrub away the stain on my soul. But, alas, that will remain with me until the end of my days.
K*