Timothy

It was one of those weird things where something loud wakes you up, but it was part of a dream. As if you heard the sound, and in that split second your mind fabricates an elaborate and stressful backstory concerning the source of the sound, and then forces you to experience that stressful bcakstory. I sat straight upright as Theo hollered and bounded across the living room and into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him (I sleep in the living room). It had to be around four am. My heart was still pounding when he timidly opened his door and said, "We have rats."

He claimed to have seen two, both sitting on the edge of the bathtub as he stumbled into the bathroom in the middle of the night. Now going to the bathroom was even more of an adventure than it already was, and I was terrified of even shutting the door. 

We didn't encounter any more rats until a little over 24 hours later. It was 8:30 am this time, and I was dozing, so I was not going to be startled this time. I grunted as Laura made her way towards the shower. The split second the door shut I heard a scream, and the door flew open as Laura backed out into the living room. "It landed on my head!!!!" I rolled my eyes to myself and pretended not to be awake, but after 30 seconds, it was clear she was going to need some help. "I'll let you know if it scurries under my door!!" Theo called out from inside his bedroom. Thanks. 

So there we were, in a standoff with Tim the Rat (we had decided that he needed a name). He was sitting on the window sill, staring nonchalantly at us, as we stood there terrified, me in boxers and a t-shirt holding a pot and a lid, and Laura in her towel holding a ladle. We approached him, and he leapt, climbing the glass panes to the top of the curtain, like a flying squirrel across the bathroom into the sink (ricocheting off of Laura, again), and then onto the floor, out the door, and behind the washing machine. Grover Cleveland, our surly (and insane) tabby cat, who is apparently an awful and/or disinterested hunter, sat incredulously watching from on top of the sideboard. "OK, enjoy your shower," I said as I climbed back into bed, and as Laura stood there in post-traumatic shock. 

Twelve hours later we were having an enjoyable evening, when Grover started acting strange (stranger than usual anyways). Loping around the apartment like an idiot, we figured he was finally showing interest in Tim. Investigating, I walked into the kitchen and he was sitting, stock still, staring at the ceiling. This was weird for three reasons: he never goes in the kitchen, he never sits still, and he never stares. I turned and looked up, and there sat Tim, on a pipe running along the upper corner of the kitchen. 

Figuring Grover had Tim trapped for at least a few minutes, I ran downstairs to get our bowab, which is in Egypt, a sort of doorman/super/handyman/resident of the crappy tiny ground floor apartment. His name is Mohammad, and not only does he not speak a word of English, but he has a hard time communicating in Egyptian arabic. We are not sure where he is from. "Andee farr," I said. I have a rat. "Ariff," he said. I know. Thanks a lot, Moh. (I call him BoMo, short for Bowab Mohammad) Trying to stumble and gesticulate through some awful arabic sentence, his wife appeared next to him with a wooden spoon and a plastic bag. As he said the word for "you want?" he pounded his closed fist against the front knuckles of his other closed fist. "Aiwa," I said, and we marched up the stairs together. 

We got back into the apartment, and Grover and Tim were still in their staring match in the kitchen. It wasn't an angry stare, but more mutual expressions of bemusement. BoMo picked up Grover and handed him to me. Not really wanting a front row seat to the battle, I carried him back into the living room where Theo and Laura sat, interested to see how I had handled this. Without any sort of commotion or delay, BoMo walked out of the kitchen with a moonfaced grin. Proud as hell, he held Tim up by the tail, so we could all take in his deadness. Never losing his ear-to-ear smile, he walked over to the balcony, and tossed Tim's dead body into the garden, five floors below. He must have just bopped him on the head. How on earth did he do that? 

Thus ends the tragic story of Tim the Rat, Grover the Cat, and Moh the Boh. And so it goes.