The Rat of the Baskervilles

For several days, the Husband had been complaining about the kitchen smelling badly. Our furniture and household goods from the States had recently arrived, and we were now using our gigantic American trashcan in the kitchen. So I just assumed it was the massive amount of garbage that had accumulated. I wrapped it up and we took it to the trash collection site on the way to the Sunday market.

We returned home later that day and the Husband mentioned the smell again. I dismissed the acrid scent by suggesting that it might be coming from the fish we had purchased at the market and had left in the car while we were eating lunch at our friends’ house. The Husband must have accepted that explanation for he didn’t demand further inquiry.

Monday morning I woke up, plodded down the stairs, entered the kitchen and was overpowered by one hell of a stink. I made my pot of tea and left the room as quickly as possible.

The Husband woke up, plodded down the stairs, and before he could make his way to the kitchen, I informed him that the air in the kitchen was quite difficult to breathe without vomiting.

I remained at my post in the living room; sipping my morning tea, enjoying the sunrise, and listening to the birds serenade me. The Husband intrepidly entered the kitchen, and was heard to let out a scream, albeit a masculine scream.

The rest of the tale, I did not witness. I gathered the details from the Husband. He had discovered something horrid under the sink and I had no desire to sully my beautiful mind with the sight of something so hideous that it would make the Husband scream.

As my loyal readers will remember, in February, my bananas were disappearing each night and I suspected a giant monkey was living under the kitchen sink in a decrepit cave-like cupboard that I never, ever open. NEVER. The interior of the cupboard is dark, wet and cold. There is a hole dug into the ground, towards the back of the cupboard, and it is through this hole that the water from the sink drains. To me, opening the cupboard is akin to opening the gates to Hell . . . there’s no telling what evil is lurking there.

The Husband did open the cupboard of horrors yesterday and just as I suspected, found something evil: a giant, bloated, maggot-infested rat that at first glance, appeared to be alive since it was standing up, its body pressed up against the cupboard door. So when the Husband opened the cupboard, he thought the giant rat was directly in his face, ready to pounce.

The Husband kept calling me to come into the kitchen to see the rat. I refused. I still can’t get the vision of the beautiful dead lamb out of my head. I certainly didn’t want it replaced by an ugly putrefying rat.

When I was staying here alone, I learned to live in harmony with the rat. When I went to the States for six weeks, the Husband didn’t enjoy being forced to hide his bananas each night so he put out rat poison.

You’ll recall last week’s episode involving the dead lamb. The Husband wrapped the lamb in multiple American-sized garbage bags. When he had returned from disposing of the lamb, he said to me, “I hope there’s not a law against disposing of dead animals in the trash containers.”

“Oh,” I replied, “I don’t think they care about small animals. I threw that headless rabbit in two years ago.”

“Well, I’m a bit worried,” he continued. “The trash men drove up just as I was throwing in the bag.”

The French are pretty forgiving of their criminals so I assured him that I didn’t think he had anything to worry about. However, should he have to go to the Maison Grande for a while, I promised that the dogs and I would faithfully wait for his return.

Yesterday on the anniversary of the end of World War II, around three in the afternoon, two Gendarmes pulled into the driveway. I thought, the French don't spare any expense for their celebrations, and here they've hired actors to re-enact the deportation of Jews for the holiday festivities. What a dramatic way in which to bring back the sights, sounds and sensations of the war.

The Husband was involved in his favorite pastime, fixing the computer, and asked me to answer the door.

I have to admit, I’m not a good wife. It wasn't my natural instinct to hide the Husband in a dank cupboard, we have several, and then go lie to the Gendarmes that the Husband had fled to the States. Sadly, the thought crossed my mind that, if they take the Husband away for a few months, I can decorate the house the way I want, without any negotiation about where to hang the paintings or place the furniture. I’m always surprised at the ways in which Providence provides me with what I want.

I replied, “No you go to the door. It’s the Gendarmes, it’s better if a man talks to them.”

The Husband sighed and somberly walked to meet his fate.

Turns out the Gendarmes wanted to know if we had seen any robbers.

“Ah hah!” the Husband exclaimed while the giant rat lay tightly bound and putrefying not ten feet away from where he stood. “A robber running around? That would explain why we’re missing a lamb.”