Let me back up before you call 911 and start a true crime podcast called Murder in the Desert: The Paul Chronicles.
About four months ago, our dogs started getting real interested in one particular bush in our backyard. And by “backyard,” I mean a patch of Arizona that someone tried to tame with concrete and decorative rocks, then threw in a couple of bushes so it wouldn’t look entirely like a prison yard.
Now, because this is Arizona, land of the free and home of the venomous, my first thought was snake. Of course it was. That’s the law. If something moves in your yard and it isn’t one of your Great Danes, it’s probably a rattlesnake trying to murder you.
At one point, while Chris was out of town (because naturally, he was), I tripped and fell directly onto the suspicious bush. Let me tell you, I sprang up with the agility of a ninja who just sat on a hot curling iron. You’ve never seen a woman in her 50s move so fast outside of a clearance sale at Nordstrom Rack.
When Chris got back from his trip in March (we’re now in July, if you’re keeping score), I told him, “Something lives in that bush.” I also informed him that I had officially entered my “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” era. He nodded, gave me the usual, “Okay sweetie,” look, and mentally filed it under “Lisa’s Wild Animal Conspiracy Theories,” somewhere between “phantom squirrel in the attic” and “imaginary skunk smell.”
Side note: I often smell things no one else does. I Googled it once and read that it could be a sign of Parkinson’s, but I haven’t had time to call Michael J. Fox and verify.
So months pass. I bring up the bush-dweller daily, like a woman with an unpaid grudge and too much time. Eventually, Chris notices what I’ve dubbed the “Hobbit Door” in the bush—an actual little opening that something is clearly using as its personal Airbnb.
Finally, he agrees to call in the professionals. We booked an exterminator to come out today because I’m not trying to cosplay as Cinderella while rats vibe in my backyard like it’s Coachella.
Oh! And speaking of vibing—I did a little recon on Reddit (as one does) and found someone who said, “Rats are a part of nature. They’re just out there trying to vibe.” For a hot minute, I considered buying a few tiny tie-dye shirts and letting Paul the Pack Rat live his truth. But then I remembered I’m not Snow White and I don’t sing to vermin.
Anyway, last night, I took the dogs out to Potty Alley (the narrow strip of side yard where normal Arizonans park RVs and we let our dogs pee). The dogs immediately zoned in on the pool floats that were suspiciously shuffled around. I walked ahead, encouraging them to follow, and that’s when I saw him.
Paul.
Yes, I named him. Even though he’s going to die.
Paul the Pack Rat scurried out from behind the floats and into his tiny Hobbit bush house, the same one I’ve been screaming about for four months. It was like watching Gollum in fast-forward.
Thankfully, the dogs didn’t see him, because I did not want to spend the evening watching a National Geographic special unfold in my backyard.
The exterminator (also named Paul—because of course he is; the universe likes a theme) came today and confirmed that yes, something lives in the bush. He put down traps that are dog-safe and don’t involve medieval torture devices or anything that would make us question our karma.
We’re keeping a close eye on the pups, and I’m keeping an even closer eye on Bush Paul. Because while I did name him, and I do respect his tiny t-shirt-wearing, trash-hoarding vibe… he’s got to go.
This isn’t Rat Tale. It’s my backyard.
And I’ve already fallen into the bush once.
Paul, it’s been real. But your lease is up.
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