So at first I buried my head in the sand. I had woken up late that day, no morning coffee, and my feet had barely hit the floor when I saw the chewed-to-shit Wheat Thins box. What a sight! It looked as if a wolverine had gone through it. There I was, standing in my pajamas in a state of complete disbelief. This was no time to conduct a full-scale pest investigation. I was late for work.

That night in bed, when fears are greatly magnified, not only was I worried about my suck-ass job, I began to think that the intruder might be a big black rat with an appetite for human flesh. Jurassic. The Wheat Thins box looked like it had been blasted by a shotgun and, as I said, the waste pellets were mighty big. For all I knew there could be a whole pack of vermin running around my place bearing disease and pestilence. Off a ship from Africa or something. Can you get rabies from proximity? That’s what I was thinking. About 3 A.M. a miasma of moldy rodential air came wafting into my bedroom. I hadn’t noticed that before. Somewhere, unseen, these vermin were stirring about, revved up into a state of high activity, giving off odoriferous secretions.

The next morning I was up early to see what dirty work had occurred during the night. I entered the kitchen with a heavy brogan shoe in my hand, and it was just as I thought: they had been at it again. Bolder than ever! I had thrown out the contaminated food, and closed the cupboard tight, but—hey!—no problem: the culprits had gone to the breadbox! Its lid was ajar, a good inch and a half. Had I closed it? You’d think you’d remember a pertinent detail like that, especially if you’re in a batten-down-the-hatches frame of mind. And what if I had closed the breadbox? This rodent must be very strong. This rodent might very well be a rat—a rat that bench-pressed No. 3 vegetable cans and probably played tackle for the local ratball team. Black Bart, the Norway power rat. Fangola from Borneo.