Ratatouille - Eeeeeek!

Once upon a time, there was a little mouse in my house.

Nawwww, that sounds kinda cute, doesn't it? 

When we were little kids, my dad used to sing this song about a mouse in old Amsterdam. It was a song that encouraged full family participation, by which I mean, whomever is loudest, wins.

Dad (booming):"I saw a mouse!"

Us kids (squealing): "Where???"

Dad (more booming with Dutch accent for additional theatre): "Zere on da stair!"

Us kids (altogether now): "Where on the stair???"

Dad (uber booming now...): "Right zere!!! A leetle mouse vis clo-oggz on!"

Several weeks ago suburban mum me (think active wear and unbrushed hair), sauntered out into the back yard with a bulging laundry basket perched on the same hip two bellowing babies had one time occupied, often at the same time. I dumped the laundry basket on the pavement under the hills-hoist; great Australian dream that it is and as I reached for the first handful of pegs, I saw a mouse...

Actually, it was a RAT.

A filthy, stinking, maggoty rat with flies buzzing.

It was dead. In my yard. It was so dead it had no head.

A headless rat. In my yard. Right under the clothesline, on my grass, on my lawn. 

My lawn that I mow and rake and tend with begrudging irritation.

I screamed out loud

...but there was no one to hear me scream.

Despite years of mothering and international jet-hostessing in turbulent times, I could not hold back the gagging. I skittered around in a circle, holding in the spews.

"Urgh...Gahhh!...Booooorffff...Urghhh!"

Why was it headless?  And where was the beloved cat? 

Further "holding in the spews" I grabbed several plastic baggies and gloves. I double-gloved up and double-bagged up, preparing self for the quick disposal of maggoty, headless rat.

It took a few goes.

As I reached towards the squelchy creature on the grass, I tearfully retreated once or twice. This was sooooooo disgusting. 

More tears and gags ensued when I scraped it off the lawn with my double-gloved and bagged hands AND THE STIFF, DEAD TAIL TOUCHED MY ARM.

Sobbing now, I had to bend the tail with my other double-gloved and bagged fingers to get it into the disposal bag. 

And it just wouldn't bend. It kept poking out through the gaps in the top of the bag, caressing my arm with its deadness. 

More sobbing when realised I had to put the dead, maggoty rat in my wheelie-bin.

Which required walking it through my house and out into the garage. With its tail poking out and touching my arm. 

It was Saturday morning. Bin day wasn't until Thursday night. So the festering beast was set to sit in the bin all maggoty week. With its tail poking out. Oh. My. God.

More sobbing. 

And I still had to hang out the laundry. MUCH more sobbing...