Today, on my lunch break, I was browsing my local pet superstore in search of a pair of Easter Bunny ears for Koa (no dice, by the way. I’m open to suggestions for where I might find some at this late hour.)
Anyway, I ducked into the loo, and as I shut the stall door I heard a “scritch scritch” noise not unlike someone sweeping the floor. Scritch, scritch. Scritch, scritch.
I look under the door. I do not see any feet.
Then a rat ran across my feet.
I, of course, did what every fearless, upstanding veterinarian would do in the same situation. I screamed “AIEEEEEE!!!” and got up on the toilet seat like a character from an old Tom and Jerry cartoon. But only for a moment.
Then I collected myself, walked out the door, and quietly informed a manager that I was the victim of a rodent scritch and run in the ladies’ restroom.
The manager, grateful for my discretion, attempted to get a physical description of the assailant to determine if he was escaped stock (this store sells rodents for pets) or the more nefarious wild type Rattus rattus.
As I was finishing my shopping, I noted a small cluster of store employees constructing an elaborate cardboard trap around the vending machine in the back. Apparently his brush with a screaming humanoid left him thirsty, so the rat made his way into the soda machine in search of some liquid refreshment.
Fortunately for all involved, the escapee was quickly retrieved and returned to the mortal coils of his plastic enclosure, and I can sleep free of plague nightmares.