Killed a Rat

Yesterday afternoon, I killed a rat in the middle of my entryway floor.  I dispatched it by whacking it, multiple times, with a shoe.  It was not a pretty scene.  The rat didn't die right away, and there was blood on the floor.  After it was over, I found myself on the sofa, sobbing.

I don't like to kill things.  As I was slaying the rat, I remember looking into its eyes and thinking, "I am depriving this creature of its life."

I felt horrible.

By the same token, I can't really have rats running around in my house, can I?  I called an exterminator last week because I heard something scratching and squeaking around behind the kitchen cabinets.

Ugh.

This morning, I heard what sounded like a squeaking rat fight behind the cabinet.  When the exterminator came to check his traps, I pointed out where I heard the noise from.  He reset the traps in a different place, and not long after I heard what sounded like one of them going off.  About 20 minutes after that, I found the rat by the entryway door.

I feel like a murderous monster.  I'm usually the type who carries harmless spiders outside.

I texted a photograph of the dead rat to my ex because the infestation has been a topic of ongoing concern.

"Eww.  Nicely done!" was the reply I received.

I still felt terrible.

I was then informed The Ex signed a lease on a new apartment, but won't get the keys the end of July.  When I looked at the calendar, I realized that means the move-out will happen on the a month after our fifth wedding anniversary.  Just about a year after asking for a divorce, The Ex will be gone.

Happy anniversary, I guess.