Rats

This morning, when I hopped into the truck and turned the key, I received from my sweet little vehicle a very unwelcome sound: Click… click… and silence. I was stunned. We’ve been so close, that truck and I have; it was a rough moment. But after some more tries, and some strategically applied gas, I was off. I figured I ought to drive down the road to recharge the battery or whatever. I don’t actually know anything about cars or batteries or anything like that; I just assume you should drive the truck after getting it to start.

So, with just a few minutes until the service project, I buckled up and started down the road. Everything was great—I was even enjoying the morning—until out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move. In my efforts to focus on the road, I only caught a glimpse, but it looked an awful lot like a worm, slithering up into the space behind the glove compartment.

I thought I must have imagined it. What kind of stupid worm would make a home in a warm, dry Toyota? But then, as the worm climbed further up, a mighty kerfuffle began under the dash, and there was squeaking, and rustling, and all-out upset.

So, in the middle of the road, I slammed on the brakes and got out of the truck. Why? I don’t know. I thought maybe the occupant of my truck was going to eat me or something. I paced around the truck awhile, looked at my clock, and realized I had to be back. So I drove back, gingerly stealing glances at the glove box, and only heard a few more squeaks from the creature.

I can’t believe there’s a rat in my truck. Look, fellas. You’re in all the buildings I work on. You’ve lived in my house. I find your dessicated friends too often for comfort. But really? In my vehicle? Come on. If they move into my own car, they’re toast.

Demolishing the bridge today was fun. We also dammed a creek, and dug a ditch. Good times were had.