Rat race
There's no truly ideal time to realise that there's a rat in the house, but 4am isn't in the top ten of great times. Attracted by the clatter of bottles from the bathroom, I walked in to see a large male rat - roughly the size of a Yorkshire terrier - raising hell on the windowsill.

We eyeballed one another in complete silence for about three quarters of a second, and then it squeaked at me. Well, I say "squeaked". Only in Disney films do rats squeak. This one opened its evil purple gob and screamed at me, producing a sound that Ridley Scott would have immediately laid down on tape for his next Alien saga.

I wanted to run. In the face of that demonic sound, every instinct compelled my feet. Instead (and to this day I don't know where I found the required personal reserves) I chased the little bastard around the room half a dozen times while it did a gravity-defying Wall of Death on the tiles, then grabbed it. And self-preservation cut in at that point: when you're holding a large and angry rat, it is vitally important not to slacken your grip, unless you want to find out what skin grafts are for. So I dispatched it.

No, you don't want the details. You genuinely don't.
(Leda74, Sat 3 Aug 2013, 1:04, 3 replies)

Can I be the first to say
POIDH?
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Sat 3 Aug 2013, 5:02, closed)

Not every person on the planet is obsessed with taking photographs to document their life.
I click story.
( d.r._and_quinch when will you be famous?, Sat 3 Aug 2013, 7:05, closed)

I heard this was the place to come for Details.

(CADmonkey rollllllllled another one, just like the other one, Sat 3 Aug 2013, 19:54, closed)