The cats have fleas, the tomatoes have stinkbugs, the attic has rats--again. That's why I'm up at the ungodly hour of 8 am on a Saturday; I'm waiting for what the pest control company calls a rodent technician to arrive.
I like "rodent technician." It makes me think of a guy whose hands only stop shaking when he's working. He wears safety goggles and hunches over a box of big, greasy rats with a screwdriver and a soldering iron. He gently picks up each rat by the neck, drills a hole into its eye, and secures a tiny chip and camera in its eye socket. Then he puts the rat into another box, and then I don't know what happens to the super spy robot rats and I guess I never will, because there's our hero at the door now.