Rats

It has to be rats. But as much as I fear them—“Avignon has a rat problem”—I now think of them a little more softly. One morning, having left my apartment on the way to the hall, I came across a large, dead rat, not far from the rat poison device. Immediate revulsion, calls to property management—“someone has to do something about it, get it out of here.” But then I realized, I could do something. I could take my dustpan and scoop the thing up and march it out to the dumpster. Only, along the way, “it” became “he,” and he became the softness around his black-lined eyes, the careful fur around his mouth.

Such a rascal remained tender, amidst hate. So I could remain, too, amidst hate.

He seemed to be in a deep sleep, or on his way to one. At the dumpster, I let him go, with the uncanny sense I was forgetting something. Only later did I realize what he needed from me: a better bed for forever, for wherever.