Debt Reduction and Rat's Arse Expansion

What an eventful day! I feel like Superman! (Well, Wonderwoman, if you want to get all technical about it, but it just hasn't got the same ring to it that way.) In the space of twenty-four hours, I've knocked my debt down by three thousand dollars, eaten a plateful of delicious Greek food, and failed spectacularly at getting Stella to look cute for a photograph.

Firstly, the debt--I've been saved, for the time being, by great good fortune and by a deus ex machina in the form of a generous patron of the arts. In addition to the three thousand dollars, I scored a Brita water filter, new in the box. I've had my eye on one of those.

That's not the best bit, though. Oh, man. This chase scene right here, this is the best bit:

The Plan

It was all Gail's idea, I swear. Every bit of it. Why, I was hardly even there, let alone an active participant. You'd never see me caught up in this sort of malarkey.

The Plan, Without The Bullshit

It was mostly my idea. Wherever there's malarkey, tomfoolery, or bamboozlement to be found, there, forsooth, am I. Tonight was no exception. The plan was quite simple, really: me and Gail, we were going to take a cute photo of Stella, one so blameless, so endearing, that the building manager who's not letting me move in because of the rat would immediately change his mind, welcoming us both with open arms. Easy, right? All we had to do was swaddle Stella in a bundle of cloth, with just her head poking out. I mean, there's a whole lot of Stella--possibly too much to love, if you're not a rat enthusiast. So we figured, if we could just present the best portion (leaving out the more monstrous bits), we'd be in with a chance.

Stella, she was just mooching about in the Rat Cave, a horrible, newspaperous nest made out of a gnawed-on box. She'd just surfaced from a Greek-salad-induced coma, and seemed like she might be in the mood for a little attention.

"Hello, Stella," I said.

"Skeek?" she asked, suspicious. I think she knew something was up. You could almost see it in her eyes, manic excitement mixed with just a little trepidation.

"Oh, yeah," I giggled. "I've got you, baby."

"Skeek," she demurred, in a tone steeped in the vinegar of ratly disapproval. Nonetheless, when I opened the gate, she wasn't shy about coming out.

She nosed around furtively for a moment or two, no doubt planning her escape route. Me and Gail, we were blocking any direct attempts at flight, but she's a crafty one, Stella. Any wee nook or cranny left open, and she's through it like a shot. Almost immediately, she looked to be launching an escape attempt...

...but she'd just found her favourite chew-toy, a sorry object that once served as her water bottle. Nowadays, the only water it holds is when she pees on it. I tried to seize her mid-lunge, but she oiled straight through my fingers and gave it a token slurp.

Can't imagine what she was expecting--damn thing was bone dry.

After a few unsuccessful attempts at libation, she wrinkled up her nose and stalked off. You could practically see the black cloud over her head: #$&@*! useless water-bottle! No water! $#!+!

It was just after that, I think, that things went a bit cockeyed. I'd rustled up this horrid old coat, see, this oily satin smoking-jacket sort of thing, and we were going to wrap her in that for the big photo. It went something like this: I scooped her up in the coat. Gail focused. Stella squirted out and went behind the TV.

"I got her!" I yelled, throwing the coat over her. "Wait--wait, no I don't." Stella tried to squeeze under the computer desk, but didn't fit. She made a bid for my feet instead, then Gail's feet, and then she dodged us both, making for the hallway.

"Help! Help! Shut the closet door," I cried. Once she gets in there, there's no getting her out. She gets all snarled up in the coats and suitcases and wheelchairs, and that's the last you see of her for ages. Gail dove for the doors, and Stella veered off into the kitchen. I followed her. There was a brief coat-related skirmish. Stella squealed, I yelped, and the coat flew every which way. Stella sneezed. I stopped to see if she was all right, and she went in for the bite.

"Ow! My foot!"

I didn't realize it at the time, but she bit right through the skin. For the remainder of the chase, I tracked big red bloodsplotches all over the floor. We circled the kitchen several times, no longer certain who was chasing whom. I waved my coat and did the knees-up-Mother-Brown. Stella darted and snapped. Gail stood in the hallway, laughing at us. Then, Stella made a break for it, got past Gail, and, to cut a long story short, this is the picture we got:

Whole lot 'o' rat's arse, that is. Phoaaah. Look at the size of that!

Oh, and there was this one, too, where you can plainly see something I ought to have been wearing the whole time. Stella, she was trying to bust into the closet, right there. She had, no doubt, conceived designs on my coat pockets.

It all ended up, of course, as these things always do: with some big ol' rat rolling its eyes at me.

These rats, I swear. No respect for their elders. Still, now I've got a photo of a rat's arse, and Stella, well, she got some Greek food. She should count her blessings. I wasn't even going to give her any, seeing as she'd already been fed, and all. That arse of hers doesn't need any more padding, not from where I'm standing.