Colonoscopy

     I’ve been to the Mountain!

     Like many journeys in life, my journey began before I knew it.  The first steps were into the pharmacy, unless you want to take the long view of things.  In the long view my journey probably began years ago when I began taking Synthroid or a generic substitute.

      I had called in a prescription refill, but when I went to the desk to get it, the pharmacist said, “We can’t refill it.”

       “But it says one refill by 4/14,” I said.  The pharmacist scrolled around on the computer.

      “No.  Before 10/13,” he said.

      “You sure?”

     “Yes.”

     “Now what do I do?”

      “We called the clinic.  They’ll let you have five pills, but they want to see you.”  I took my five pills and went home.

      Jill answered when I called the clinic.  Yes, she knew all about it.  Kyle wanted to see me, but first I needed lab work, a thyroid test.  “Come by the office and pick up the lab order.  Then we’ll make you an appointment with Kyle.”

      “But I’ve already made an appointment with the county nurse to do the blood draw Tuesday.”

     “Well, whatever.”  So I counted pills.  With the ones in my old folks pill container, you know the one, long rectangular with seven compartments with lids marked S, M, T, etc. with brail, too just in case you lose your glasses, and the emergency pills in two bottles in my shaving kit, and the five new ones, I can go for eight days.  That will be five days after the county nurse’s “blood draw.”  Two or three times a year they offer blood tests, a whole bunch for $70 or less depending on what you get.

     I’ve always kept an eye on my glucose just so diabetes can’t ambush me.  At my age you want a PSA too to ward off prostate cancer, and of course the thyroid one.  Then there was the calcium one.  Premature gray guys are susceptible to osteoporosis.  I took calcium for a few years.  I quit after the last blood draw and I wanted to see if it made any difference. (It didn’t.)

     I called Karla, the county health nurse.  (Karla and Jill are both former students of mine.)

      “Karla, how long will it take to get the results from the blood tests?”

     “Sometimes we have them by Thursday, but it takes a week to get the results out to everybody.  Why?”  So I explained my predicament.

     “I don’t want to get tested twice if I don’t have to.”

    “No need to.  I’ll call you when the results come in.”  So I went in Tuesday morning and got my blood drawn.  I hadn’t heard from Karla by Friday, so on Monday I called.  Karla wasn’t in, and her secretary said they didn’t have the results yet.  I had one pill left. 

    “Will you have her call me when she gets in?”  Karla didn’t call for a couple of hours, but when she did call, she said, “Your blood test results are in.  Do you want me to send them up to the clinic, or do you want to pick them up?”

     “Why don’t I just pick them up and take them up myself.  Then they can tell me what they want me to do.”  And I did.  Jill said she would show them to Kyle.

     Later that same afternoon, Jill called back.  “We’ve called your prescription in and you can pick it up anytime.”  No rush.  I still have one pill left.  “But Kyle still wants to see you.  When would you like to come in?”

      Now the journey is on for real.  The mountain which has been below the horizon is just about to peek above it.

      I’m new at this Medicare business.  I thought the yearly checkup was optional.  Well, not if you have to have a prescription renewed.  Much later I would see where I took a wrong turn in this maze of life.  I should have said Kyle is pretty busy so why don’t I just see Doc D?  Doc would have looked at the lab reports, asked about my home brewing and then would have said, “You feeling ok?  Well, you look OK.  We’ll just renew your prescription for another year.  I really think we should start a microbrewery.”  End of exam. 

        But no, I went to see Kyle.  His physical was cursory.  The nurse had taken my vitals and recorded them.  He looked at them, listened to me breathe and to my heart beat.  Then came the questions.

      Have any problems?  Still sexually active?  Depression?  Use alcohol?  How much?

     “A beer a day.”

     “Keeps the nagging wife away?”  You have to like Kyle.

     But then the IED along the side of the road, that which caught me totally off guard, blew up right in my face.  “When did you have your last colonoscopy?”

       “Er, ahem, um.  Never had one.”

     “Never!?  You’re how old? 66?  You need to have one.”  There followed the lecture, colon cancer 100% curable if found in time, if you wait for symptoms, too late, etc.

       “Look, one shitty day in exchange for knowing you don’t have colon cancer and you’re good to go for ten years.  Do it again when you’re 76.  Ten years after that, you’ll be 86 and by then who cares?”

      Yeah, yeah.  I was weakening.  How could I have any resolve?  I was completely ambushed, taken totally by surprise.  Then came the clincher.

       “Besides, when the doctor does your colonoscopy, he’ll check your prostate and I won’t have to do it today!”

       Isn’t it completely human to avoid immediate pain by putting it off to some indefinite future time, especially when you’ve been caught so sudden-like, without time to do any serious rationalizing?  I’m sure all of you would have said, “Oh, let’s just go ahead and check my prostate today and not worry about the colonoscopy.”  Yeah right.

     Anyway, do you see that mountain now?  Do you see how we humans stumbling along through this maze of life, tying to take the path of least resistance as Nature programs us to do, get trapped into climbing a mountain while all we wanted to do was to stay in the valley or on the plain?  Or keep your thyroid going.

      Or do you only see a mole hill magnified several million times through the lens of a paranoiac, an anal paranoiac at that?

    Well, one man’s mole hill is another man’s mountain.  On with the story.  The clinic called again, Lindsay, another former student.  “We have a procedure (procedure?) scheduled for you on January 16.”

     “I have a pretty busy day scheduled for the 16^th.”  Well, we did have a clinician coming in from Denver to work with the barbershop guys.  Couldn’t miss that could I?

     “How about the 23^rd?”

     Nothing on the calendar for the 23^rd.  Darn!  Now there is.

    “23^rd is ok.”  Amazing how easily a person of conscience can break the 8^th (if you’re Lutheran) commandment.  It was anything but ok.  But there it was.  The “indefinite” in “indefinite future” was gone.

     Lindsay called again on the 16^th (just to see if I really was busy?).  I need to make an appointment to see Kyle, then see her either before or after, and be sure my insurance information is up to date.  Life?  Or health?  I didn’t ask.

      This time Kyle had only one question.  “Are you going to chicken out on me?”  I’ll bet Kyle is a great fisherman.  Hook is set, 150 pound monofilament line, heavy duty reel.  He just as well have said,  “I dare you.” 

     Off to Lindsay, fill out the usual questions (ever had this, or that? Allergic to anything?), and get a packet of instructions with the blanks filled in.  Pick up the prescription at the pharmacy on Tuesday and follow the mixing instructions.  On Wednesday you will be on a liquid diet.  You can have coffee (no cream), tea, soft drinks and Jello, etc.

      Sure enough, Tuesday got here, though I was hoping it wouldn’t.  The pharmacy gave me this big plastic bag that weighed hardly anything at all.  The lady standing at the counter with me, a rather religious lady who used to be an aide who worked with visually impaired in my classes, says, when they handed me the bag, “Whoa!  Looks like a fun time for you!”

     “What?  The plastic bag didn’t fool you?  I just as well have gone to the liquor store if you already know what’s in the sack!” 

     “I know what’s in the bag!  Ha ha ha.”   So did everybody else, apparently.  Home and read the instructions.  In the bag is a one gallon (4 liter) plastic jug with some powder and crystals in it.  Fill it with water, shake it up until everything is dissolved, put in the refrigerator.  Easily done.

      Not too much time to worry about it Tuesday.  That night we went to see “Church Basement Ladies.”   Then it became Wednesday.  No solid food.  Liquid diet.  Follow the instructions on the jug.  Drink a tall glass (8 oz.) every ten minutes.

    Out to the walk-in refrigerator, also known as the garage.  Return with jug.  Pour out a tall glassful.  Flitting through my mind, the last scene of Socrates’ life, the one where his now-friend and jailer tearfully brings him the hemlock and gives him his instructions.  “Drink this down, then walk around until your legs feel heavy.”  It was a few minutes past eight.  Here’s to Socrates.                                    

    Ten minutes later I tried another dose of the sennaic hemlock.  My stomach wasn’t big enough for that second one.  The Lindsay papers said about every 45 minutes.  Well, that would take too long.  Just drink it as fast as you can.

      Soon, my time was taken up between going to the kitchen to refill my glass and to the bathroom.  A few minutes before noon, I drained the last bumper.  I handed the empty jug to the Goodwife on her way to the recycle center.  It was number 2 plastic.  Appropriate.

     If you don’t look back, it’s hard to tell how far you’ve come up the mountain.  In retrospect, by 2 p.m. when things slowed down considerably, I had scaled the steepest cliff.  I couldn’t know that then.  I still had another 12 hours of liquid-only diet and 10 to 12 hours of nothing at all to eat or drink.

     One can of fat-free chicken broth, one can of fat-free beef broth, one packet of dehydrated soup, about a quart of grapefruit juice was what I “ate.”  I couldn’t help but sympathize with all souls in the world who were involuntarily fasting, especially kids, as I crawled into bed Wednesday night.

     Then it was Thursday, summit day.  The alarm was set for 6:45.  I awoke at 6:30, crawled into the shower and waited for 7:30.  Take one step at a time and we’ll get through this.  A look at the thermometer as we stepped out the door, 5 degrees F.

     Lindsay is at the front desk at 7:45.  Here comes Jolene, another former student, to take me to my room.  “You have a roommate.  I think you’ll recognize him,” Jolene says.  There already in backless gown, IV in left arm, waiting was my 20 year colleague, football coach, AD, PE teacher Dan.

       “I didn’t think things could get much worse,” Dan greets me.

      “Yeah, we’ve really hit bottom.”

      Jolene hands me a rag and says, “Here’s your gown.  You can change in the bathroom and put your clothes in this closet.”

      I have to walk past Dan’s lounger to get to the bathroom.  “Close the door.  I don’t want to see this,” he says.

    “Not in the mood for a strip tease?”  After trying to tie the neck string of the gown with it on, I finally took it off, tied the string and put my head through the loop.

     “Get the ties figured out?” Jolene asks as I step out of the bathroom, juggling clothes and shoes in one hand, trying with the other hand to avoid giving Dan a BA.  “Oop, nope.  Missed this one,” as she gets behind me and ties the apron string I somehow missed.

     The nurse-anesthetist arrives just as Jolene is inserting the IV.  “We’ll try this mask on.  We’ll be giving you a little oxygen.”  Mask on, mask off.  The usual questions, any allergies, any problems with anesthesia, any questions?  No.  “See you in a little while.”

      “What are you having done?” I ask Dan through the curtain.

    “Both.”

     “Both?”

     “Upper and lower.”

    “Well, tell them to do the upper first.”

      “OK.  Why?”

      “You don’t want them cramming that thing down your throat after they’ve used it on the other end.”

      “They don’t use the same one,” Jolene says.  “The one they use on your stomach is smaller.”

       Eventually, the surgeon comes in, apologizes for being late, forgot to set his alarm, asks Dan what we’re looking for, assures him it won’t take long and he’ll know the results before he leaves.

      “And what are we doing for you, just a routine exam?”

       “Yes.”

     The Goodwife chips in, “Kyle is a good salesman. He’s keeping you busy.”

      “This will be easy.  You’ll know before you leave if I find anything.  I remember you.  I don’t remember many of the people I’ve operated on, but I remember you.”

      “Yes, you’ve dug a hole in me before.”  The truth is, he saved my life by referring me first to a urologist, and then to an infectious disease doctor who both helped me get rid of staff infection in mesh used to fix my hernia.

     “I was a bet between you and Dr. B.  He bet you he could cure me with antibiotics.  You didn’t think he could.  You lost, thank goodness.”

       “No problems with it any more?”

       “Not since it dried up.”

      “What has it been, five or six years?  Well if you ever do have any problems, I’d like to know.  You are a pretty rare case.  Well, see you in a little bit.”

       Somewhere during our conversation, they’ve hauled old Dan off.  I’m reminded of the scene in Animal Farm where they load old Boxer up in the knacker’s van and haul him off to the glue factory. 

     Now nothing to do but wait.  And wait.  I should have brought something to read.  Finally, the nurse wheels Dan back into the room.  He asks me, “You OK?”

     “Yeah, I’m fine.  How about you?”

      “I’m doing ok.  Hey, there’s a lot of our former students in that room.”

     “Having any pain?  Gas pains?”  the nurse asks Dan.

     “Yeah, gas pains,” Dan agrees.

     “Well, let it go.  The truth is, we can’t let you go until we know you can pass that gas.”

     “Maybe I should leave,” says the Goodwife.  As she’s leaving, the nurse laughs and says, “Where else can you fart and the women in the room will cheer instead of chewing you out.”

     “Do I need to come over and pull your finger?” I ask.

    “Do you have someone to take you home?” the nurse asks Dan.

     “Yeah.”

     “Who?”

     “My wife.”

     “What’s her name?”

     “Sally.”

     “Where is she?”

     “Home.”

    “I’ll call her.  What’s your phone number?”

      Then the wheelchair is in front of me.  “I’ve come for you,” the nurse says.

    “They’re coming to take me away, hey hey, They’re coming to take me away,” I quote.

    “Yup, I’m coming to take you away,” echoes the nurse. 

     “What do I do with my glasses?”

     “We’ll put them right here,” says the nurse and puts them on the table.  Down the hall we go past the nurse’s station.  I say “hi” to all my former students at the station.

     Cheryl greets me at the OR door.  “Just sit on this pad.  Now roll onto your side.”  She adjusts the pad and undoes the gown draw string, throws a blanket over me.  Around the table to my front side Cheryl asks, “What are we doing today?”

     What?  What are we doing?  Climbing a mountain?  “WE are doing a colonoscopy,” I say.  Then I think.  “Wait a minute!  What if I answer that question wrong, do I get kicked out of here?”

     Cheryl laughs, “Too late, you already answered correctly.”  The nurse-anesthetist comes in, puts a mask on me.

     “I’m going to give you a little oxygen to clear your head.”  Another violation of the 8^th commandment, but this one isn’t on my soul.  “How are you doing?”

      “I’m getting a little sleepy.”

      “That’s ok.”

      That’s it.  I’ve reached the mountain top.  A bit anti-climactic, don’t you think?

      The next thing I’m aware of is sitting back in the room in the same lounge chair.  “How’d I get my glasses on?”

      “We put them on you the first thing we got you back in the room.  Can you pass gas?”

     Action speaks louder than words, so I acted.  “That’s good,” the nurse says.  I’m little surprised that old Dan is still farting around on the other side of the curtain.  But then things aren’t all that clear yet.  The surgeon comes in to tell me I’m good.  As he’s telling Dan he’s good on the lower end but he couldn’t find anything to cause his stomach pains, I’m given my clothes and shepherded into the bathroom.  Somewhere in the jumble of events I chose a muffin and a glass of water for a snack, have to return to the bathroom because the gas-passing has gone a little beyond air. Then the muffin and water are gone and the Goodwife hands me my coat and we are making our way down the hall to the front door.  I don’t remember Dan leaving or if he was there when I left.

      Sally was there.  When she saw me she said too bad Joe wasn’t there.  The three of us retired together and were honored together by the school district.  It would be a reunion of sorts.

      Outside, it has warmed up to 9 degrees and that walk to the car sobers me up pretty fast.  Hey!  I walked out that door, didn’t have to be carried!  My backside is covered.  I can eat.  The sun is shining!  I can eat!

    Home we go.  The first thing I did after taking my coat off was throw the skillet on the burner, fry some bacon, an egg and have a banana ready for dessert.  Don’t forget the acidophilus.  The real end of this will be when things are back in working order. 

      But hey!  I’m down from the mountain!  It’s great to be back on the old flat plain.  Man is it good to be able to eat.

    I may go see Kyle again someday.  When my prescription runs out.

  

    

Struldbrugs

     In Gulliver’s Travels in the land of Luggnagg, Gulliver describes immortal human beings called “Struldbrugs”.  They are normal creatures except for one thing—they never die.  After 80 years or so, they suffer all the pains, losses, and indignities of old age.  Release from their infirmities is not possible since they are immortal.

     We started this week off with a Monday morning funeral for a lady who has been in an Alzheimer’s unit for the past five years or so.  The obituary and eulogy reminded us of the gregarious fun-loving person she had been.  Thank God we are not immortal.

     Meanwhile, life went on.  The day ended with a Lions meeting.  Lions clubs do a lot of good things, working to protect people’s eyesight around the world, providing disaster relief everywhere.  When you donate to Lions Clubs International Foundation, most of your donation goes to help victims, not the fund-raiser, because administration costs are provided by Lions members’ dues.  And of course, there’s all the work Lions clubs do in the local communities.

     But the flip side of Lions is the huge bureaucracy that runs the organization.  Local clubs have to have at least three officers, president, secretary and treasurer.   The secretary has to fill out monthly reports on membership and club activities.  (I’m not sure who reads those reports.) No one wants to be secretary.

     Clubs belong to zones.  Each zone requires a zone chairman.  Zones and clubs belong to a district.  A district has to have 1000 (or more) members, with a governor.  The district governor has to visit each club at least once.  As membership has shrunk, districts have expanded geographically.  The job of visiting every club is too onerous for one person so now we have vice-district governors.     

    Like most volunteer organizations, Lions Clubs are losing members.  Many small towns have closed their Lions club and started a community organization to do what Lions used to do.  They don’t have to file all the reports or have meetings all the time.

      One sociologist suggests that people born in the 60’s and later follow a different paradigm than older generations.  The new guys aren’t willing to sit through a meeting just for the sake of sitting in a meeting.  The new guys aren’t lazy.  They will work on a project that they see will help the community or be worthwhile in some way.

     The sociologist also suggests that the newbies are looking for fulfillment of the need to be creative, and the need to develop personally.  They also want to feel needed and wanted.  Organizations that don’t appeal to those needs will fail, he says.

    Finally, time is important.  The new guys are used to having every second of their time filled up, usually with something electronic, something they have control of.  So, at a meeting or activity, when there is dead time, out comes the smart phone.  Not a minute to be wasted.

     My sociologist says that the club or organization that doesn’t adapt to the new paradigm is doomed.

     Here is our Vice-District Governor (in the yellow shirt) with some of our most devoted members.  Two guys in the picture are under 80, and one of them isn’t a member.

    Here endeth the sociology lesson.  On to the rest of the week, if you haven’t changed channels. . . .

     Much of my time this week went to the rental house in town.  It was a four door model when I started.  It’s now a three door model, with two new doors, a deadbolt added to one old door, and a couple of scars from the door-obliteration.

     I tore the door out on Tuesday.  It seemed a nice enough day.  I had the studs in when the snow began to fall.  Fortunately, it was a spring-like storm.  In five minutes, the sun was shining.  Then it snowed again.  It forced me to cut the sheetrock first and get it inside, through the hole where the door used to be.  That saved me carrying it around and through a new door, which I would have had to do if I sheeted the outside up first.

    On Thursday it was so nasty and windy, I decided to take a trip to get the siding, not available locally, rather than work outside.  The trip wasn’t a very good idea.  I passed through an area that was near-zero visibility due to blowing dust.

     As I began my return trip, a police car went whizzing around me.  Soon I saw traffic stopped, so I took an alternate route.  Later, I learned that three people died in a pile-up in the dust-blowing segment of that road.

     Back to the deck next week.

     And then there’s a colonoscopy on Thursday.  

Doldrums

     Sunrise 8:04, sunset 5:39. I figure if I ever moved to Alaska, my life expectancy would drop to less than one year.  If I went there in the spring, I would do myself in during June or July trying to remain active and productive from dawn to sunset.  If I went in October, the lack of sunlight would finish me off before Christmas.

     In The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, the ship containing the criminal who shot and killed the albatross fell into the doldrums.  There the ship stayed until the crew starved and thirsted to death.  The crew bodies would be inhabited by spirits who man the skeleton ship (all the boards shrunk until there’s nothing but frame) and return the albatross-killer, the sole survivor, and dead crew to their home port in England.

      The winter doldrums aren’t as bad as the Mariner’s, I think.  The doldrums, by the way, are (is?) the area(s?) along the equator which is a sort of DMZ for the north and south winds.  They either stay out of there completely, or have some tremendous battles there.

      The holidays are mostly to blame for the winter doldrums.  After an extended week of sumptuous sugar and fat highs coupled with fizzy beverages, there’s nowhere to go but down as in, back to work.  I think those old Puritans were on to something when they banned holidays like Christmas.  Don’t put on any midwinter celebrations.  Steer an even keel and tough out those short days and long nights.

    Easy to say this soon after emptying your stocking, eating that orange and candy cane and keeping warm with that lump of coal and you don’t have to be nice again for another 50 weeks.

     It could be worse.  You could be in customer service and have to deal with all the nasty callers who are upset because they bought it on Black Friday and the 30 days are up and you had to leave the tags attached to the garment and have the sales receipt and the gift card you got last year and never spent is being hit $2 per month for inactivity fees.

    Well, that’s almost all behind us for another year, and here’s a quick glimpse of our holidays:

      The prize for the best gift decoration goes to Josh for putter wrapping.  Included were wire nuts, stick pins, egg cartons, bubble wrap, a nose and tail. 

    Gung Hay Fat Choy!  Woops.  That’s Chinese.  Akemashite Shinnen Omedeto Go Zai Mashu!  (Word is prejudiced.  It didn’t flag Chinese for being ungrammatical, but it sure did Japanese.)

      And here’s what I’ve been doing in the New Year.

  

  Putting new wine in old skins?

      Of course, the doldrums only affect sailing ships.  One way to get out of them, put a motor in that boat. 

The Rat Pack (Not Frank and Sammy)

    This is the country.  Not Los Angeles, California.  I live here.  Name’s Tuesday (not Weld).  Crime Scene Investigator.

     December 28, 2013.  Victims leave home for holiday time with family.

     December 30.  Victims return home, pull into garage.  Wife says, “Uh oh.”  Husband says, “Hmmm?”  (Just the facts, Ma’am, just the facts.)

      “The north door is open.”

      Signs of strong winds, Styrofoam blown about garage, paper stuff scattered around from recycle bin.

      Husband says, “Must not have latched it good when I closed it.  Strong wind blew it open.  Will have to set mouse traps.  Shet de do’.”

      Victims briefly inspect premises for signs of break in.  Finding none, enter house proper, find nothing amiss, unload car and proceed with life.

      December 31, Husband leaves garage doors open all day, removing satellite dish and bird feeder from piling post and mounting aforementioned articles on newly covered support post.

      Piling posts must not be meant to stick in the ground.

    December 31st still, 5:30 p. m.  Victims enter car and back out of garage.  Check engine light flashes on.  Husband exits car and opens hood.

    “A rat’s nest on top of the engine!”

     “How do you know it’s a rat’s nest?”

     “My mistake.  A pile of bits of tissue, string from a nearby frazzled rug, pieces of plastic sack stuffed compactly into a recess in the intake manifold between left valve cover and throttle body-air cleaner assembly.  Looks like a rat’s nest.  Two wires cut in two.  Looks like they have been bitten, not a clean cut like a wire cutter or a pair of pliers would do.   Hard, black plastic vacuum line also severed.  Looks like same tool that got the wires got the vacuum line.”

      Car runs ok.  Victims proceed with New Year’s Eve plans. 

      January 1, 2014, 10 a. m.  Husband inspects garage for signs of pack rat.  Finds gnaw marks on door frame.

    January 1, 12 p.m.  Husband takes pickup to town to borrow live trap from neighbor.

     January 1, 1 p.m.  Husband baits trap with grapefruit with a hole gnawed in it  (have to move items stored in “walk-in refrigerator” to rat-proof boxes), carrot tops, pieces of bread with peanut butter on it.

     January 1, 2014, 2 p.m. Husband patches one set of wires, uses jumper cord to complete circuit on second severed wire, replaces eight inches of hard black plastic vacuum line with three feet of hard black plastic vacuum line from spare parts in garage.

     Left of picture, coiled white wire equal jumper cable where dirty rat left not enough wire to splice.  Center of picture, black circle equal excess hard black plastic vacuum line connecting cruise control to intake manifold.  About 2 o’clock on excess vacuum line equal two wire nuts splicing other severed electrical wire, ending in plug just below 12 o’clock on hard black plastic vacuum line.

      January 1, 6 p.m.  Victims take car, running fine but check engine light still glowing, to go to neighbors to eat and watch football.

     On return home, husband opens garage door, Wife says, “The carrots are gone!”

     “From the ice chest?!”

     “No, from the cage.”

     Husband says,  ”[Expletive deleted] I forgot to open the pickup hood!” Wife proceeds into house.

     Husband opens pickup hood, runs to yell through house door, “Come help me.”

     Wife returns to the garage.  “What do you want?”

      “The rat’s in the pickup engine compartment!  Back the pickup out while I watch to see he doesn’t jump out.”

     Wife gets in pickup, starts it, pickup dies.  Wife starts it again.  Pickup dies. Wife starts pickup again, “puts her foot in the fan”, pickup screams.  Wife lets off accelerator pedal, puts it in reverse, pickup jumps back and dies.

       Husband says, “Here let me do it.  You see he doesn’t get out of the pickup until I get the pickup outside.”  Husband hands Wife the hoe he has been holding while on sentry duty, and gets into the pickup.

     Husband starts pickup and holds accelerator down enough to keep pickup running but not screaming, and backs it out of the garage.   Rat is apparently still aboard.  Husband shuts garage door, opens hood again, props it up with 4X8 block with rat bait attached.

       

     Husband rebaits live trap with carrot tops, using specially designed tool that came with trap. 

     (The tool is the stick with the laundry soap cup attached by blue tape--gets the bait over the pedal that springs the trap without springing the trap.)  If there’s one rat, there may be two.

    January 2, Victim checks rat trap, finds bait gone, door gaping wide open. As it is 6 a.m., it is still dark, victim baits trap with carrot pieces yet again and retires to fireside and the computer.

      9:30 a.m.  Victim finds carrots gone again and door to trap door still open.

     11 a.m.  Takes car to mechanic shop to see if he can get jumpered wire a permanent fix.  On the way, check engine light goes out.

     Stops at hardware store for wiring pliers and terminals, two different kind of rat traps, not the kind kind.  At this point a certain amount of malevolence directed at rat, who deserves whatever he gets.

      Returns to repair pickup (still sitting outdoors) wires. 

      Steel wool wrapped around wires deters them a little bit.  Repairs completed, pickup starts, runs and idles normally again.

       Victim finds tall cottage cheese container and sets on live trap pedal-door tripper.  Pours water into the cottage cheese container until trap door goes bang!  Empties water out and door won’t stay open.  Dump more water until door just barely stays open.  Rebaits trap with carrots.  Also, with evil chuckle baits two spring traps.

       The black thing is a jaw with nasty teeth.  Heh, heh.  The carrot goes down beneath the lower jaw where the rat can’t reach it, but when he tries. . .!

     7:15 p.m. Victim leaves Wife in the house and heads for barbershop—singing, not haircut.

     10:45 p.m. Husband returns, enters garage to hear a rattling in the live trap.  He opens the door into the house and yells, “I got him!”

     “I know, I opened the door to put some stuff in the recycle bin and I heard the door come down.  I must have scared him.”

    Did they get the right rat?  For two days, the carrots remain in all traps, the traps unsprung.

      On January 2, 2014, the dirty rat received two hours prison time and was released with unsupervised probation.

     The names have been withheld to protect the weak of heart (who stand to be victimized again).

     Dump-de-dump-dum-duuuumb.

    

(Comment:  Now you know what’s wrong with our justice system; the dirty rat was housed, fed, and turned loose to commit mayhem on another innocent car’s wiring system when he should have had an 85-cent shotgun shell expended on him.)