I nearly crashed my head against the ceiling I leapt so high off the linoleum. It was just a blur, a tiny little brown flash in the corner of my eye. But it was an unmistakable blur. There was a rat in the kitchen.

The spatula I’d be using to flip my slices of french toast went crashing to the counter, slinging slops of beaten egg streaming against the wall. I, of course, was screeching in a high-pitched shrill and clamoring atop the dining room table.

The vile little vermin had scurried behind the refrigerator. I watched, pensively, to see if he was going to emerge from the tiny space on the other side where the fridge met with the kitchen cupboards. I saw nothing.

Soon, my bated breath had calmed and I was able to regain a clear head. My toast was starting to burn in the frying pan, and I knew if I didn’t get down, soon enough the whole apartment would be filled with smoke and alarms would be going off.

Gingerly, I eased down my right foot, one bare toe meeting the linoleum at a time until my whole foot was planted on the floor. I eased myself down very deliberately, keeping sure to have my weight on my back foot, so I could turn and run for the cover of the living room if need be.

My eyes were fixed on the corner where the rodent had absconded. I kept my distance, straining my back and shoulders to lean toward the stove without having to actually step in front of the fridge. My blindly fumbling fingertips finally found the dial to the electric range, and I spun the burner off. Immediately, I snapped back upright.

The crackling and sizzling of my french toast softened to a low, heated rumble and I crept, precariously, backwards, retreating to the living room while keeping my eyes fixed on the base of the fridge.

I grabbed my phone, ducked into the bedroom, slammed the door and proceeded to stuff loose bedsheets under the gap so that nothing could squirm underneath. The phone book was in the living room. But I wasn’t about venture out on that mission.

The operator answered my 411 call with the usual ‘city and state please’ response. “Jacksonville. Jacksonville Florida,” I replied.

“What listing?”

“I need an exterminator. Any exterminator.”

“Hold please.” I paced nervously for the brief moments that I was listening to static silence. Then a recorded message told me a number, and gave me the option to pay a nominal fee to be directly connected. I was happy to pay the charges.

To my delight, a friendly young lady from Dale’s Pest Control answered promptly. I explained my situation and gave her my address. She said someone would be right out.

The next half hour was one of the longest of my life. Fortunately, I was in my bedroom. So I was able to get out of my house robe and into ‘gear’ that was more appropriate for battling rodents. This of course meant that I had dressed myself in heavy jeans, and had donned the cowboy boots I’d picked up ten years ago during a phase that I prefer not to talk about. Having only ever worn them once, there were many spring cleanings where this particular pair of footwear was on the Goodwill chopping block. Man was I glad I’d decided to hold on