Here as I lounge in my comfy living room, I would never guess that it’s 101 degrees just outside my window if I hadn’t peeked. I actually had the nerve to throw a chill-subduing coverlet over my bare feet just now.   

The cat boys are taking their afternoon tea while I sip on a cran-raspberry La Croix over ice. Life is positively grand. I see a delicious cooldown happening as the week advances, and there are fun plans in the works for two close friends. Happy birthday, Lane and Lynn!

But, let’s back up for a moment to the air-conditioned bliss picture. I am just beginning to bask my way through the first full summer ‘neath the refreshing flow of my shiny new Carrier unit I purchased (am and will be purchasing). 

Every year about this time, I thank God for the genius of Willis Carrier, inventor of the air conditioner during one sticky New York summer in 1902. Lynn’s father and other family members actually worked for him there. 

My upstairs unit is old but hanging on by its evaporator coils for now. Every six months, I have Rogue Valley Heating and Air come out to make sure everything is hunky dunky. 

Recently, a young woman came out to do the work. The upstairs unit necessitates service personnel climbing into my attic from a crawl space in the ceiling of my office closet. Not exactly spacious. But up she went to give the unit a once-over. 

After coming down, she had a strange look on her face. She informed me that the rat trap which had been placed up there years ago had done its duty. She said, “You might want to get it out of there.” 

Well, sure, I didn’t want to leave a dead rat lying around, but secretly thought, why didn’t you bring it down? I mean, she was right there. But then I realized it’s not in her job description and she hadn’t come prepared with gloves and bag. OK. 

“Is it dead?” I was afraid to ask. “Yes.” OK. That was good. 

After she left, the specter of the deceased rodent overhead preyed on my mind. It likely would begin to smell pretty badly. I’ve smelled overly dead rats before — not on purpose. 

Now, I never go into my attic. It’s not like visiting my grandparents’ former attic, full of cool old trunks and stuff. It just has the HVAC unit and rows of studs with insulation stuffed between. 

I decided to call an exterminator company to just come and remove the corpse. I know what you’re thinking. Some of you are lifting your eyebrows and going so far as to utter “wimp” under your breath. So be it. 

I called two or three companies and they, without exception, wanted to enroll me in an annual rat obliteration program. “No,” I said. “I just want someone to come out and remove the dead one.” No go. 

So, I resorted to calling my capable neighbors, thinking that even though I’m always asking them for favors and never reciprocating except to bake a few measly cookies now and then, they would be able to tackle the job. 

First off, you need a ladder to get up in there. A step stool doesn’t cut it. So, here Susan came with a 6-foot ladder. But for some reason, I thought she came with the ladder — a packaged deal. She proceeded to hold the ladder and look on while waiting for me to climb. 

With plastic bag and flashlight in hand, I summoned pluck and mounted the steps. There, I spotted it lying next to the unit, dead alright. I opened the bag and picked up the trap, opening its jaws and shaking until the rat fell off. Fortunately, there was no odor. In fact, there was no heft to it at all. 

After climbing down and feeling fulfilled, I dared to look at my quarry. That rat had been dead for years. It had completely dried up. I thought the bag felt feather light. That rat was so dried up (how dried up was it?) that I could have read my RV Times through it.

Stay cool, everyone. A special shout out to Helen Blankenship who never fails to “like” my column that the Times posts on Facebook.

Peggy Dover is a freelance writer/author/rat-conteur. Reach her at peggydover@gmail.com.