My teacher, my soccer coach, Grandma, and of course, the rat.

There is a large rat in our house. It moves between each member of the family.

“I think it is happiness,” my son says.

It gnaws at our feet. It crawls under the sheets of our beds as we sleep. It sits at the table while we eat. It doesn’t say, “Pass the bread,” but climbs up the table cloth and chews at the food, its tail curling into the salad.

“Is it grandpa?” my daughter asks.

“No,” we say. “It is a rat.”

“Let’s give it a name.”

“No,” we say. “It is a rat.”

“Then we must kill it,” our youngest says. “I will drown it in the bath, and fill its mouth with Lego. I have a box from my rock collection. I will make a coffin and decorate it with glitter and macaroni. We can bury it in the garden beside Scott the Bunny.”

Instead, my wife and I dig a hole in the middle of the living room. We gather blankets and pillows. The family climbs in and we cover ourselves up. “Who will remember us?” we say.


“My teacher,” our youngest says. “My soccer coach, Grandma, and, of course, the rat,” he says.