I was talking to my potential property manager yesterday afternoon (I'm planning to rent my house for a year) when a rat strolled outside (thankfully) of my sliding glass door.
I told him I had to go (it seemed unproductive to blurt out a rat siting). The rat had stopped in front of me and put its front paws up on the window. It was a Ratatouille moment, pear-shaped little rat body and all.
Thankfully, my exterminator answered his phone for some counseling. He had been here just a couple days earlier when there was rampant rat activity, or at least three. They strolled around as James and I surveyed my small courtyard. I know that adding the second bird feeder in downtown, rodent-attractive Savannah is a bad idea. But you should see the cardinals!
James left four large-ish black boxes where rats go in and feed off of a block of food that makes them die, hopefully elsewhere. I was relieved that I didn't have to go picking up rat traps. And James said I could call him if I find any dead ones.
In recounting my saga I found out that boyfriend Douglas had not seen Ratatouille -- finally, a movie that I've seen and he hasn't. Movie night is coming up and the rats might be in the past, with any luck and one less birdfeeder.
