I pulled away the cardboard I had tacked over the opening. Both Linda and I saw something move in the white plastic dishpan where I stored cleaning supplies and a extra roll of paper towels, now half shredded.
"It's still there," I said.
She called her two rat terriers, "Chewie! Zeb! Look!" She pointed to the dishpan. "Git 'em!" The dogs, excited by her voice, sniffed around the cluttered dishpan. "They can smell it,"she said. We stood back and watched, waiting for all hell to break loose, but the dogs kept getting distracted by our voices or by something going on outside. "Well, I'm going to have to get the big guns, " Linda said, referring to the other two rat terriers still in her rig.
What followed was both exciting and frightening, seeing the pack instinct at work. When Linda came back in the house with all four of her rat terriers and pointed under the sink, the dogs crowded together and pounced. Within thirty seconds, the pack rat was dead and half eaten on my kitchen floor. Linda snatched the rat away from the dogs, held it by the furry tail and said, "Where do you want me to put it?"
After dispensing with the bloody pack rat and helping Linda call her dogs so she could get back to the ranch, I thanked her again. "I hate to admit it," I said, "but I enjoyed that."
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