Dear Readers,
Most studies regarding relationships are about as useful to me as chicken crap on a pump handle, but this week as I was catching up on some back issues of trade magazines, I almost fell over myself.
The study was all about a bunch of rats across the pond.
Generally, rats, mice, gerbils and anything resembling such critters only serve to scare the hell outta me, but this study might give them a greater purpose.
My last house in Louisville was an old Victorian built in 1902. It was affectionately named Walnut Hill, probably because there were approximately a billion creepy walnut trees in the back of the house.
I always wanted to live in a house that had a name, so when I stumbled across this monster while my realtor Beth and I were at lunch one afternoon, all I could think about was Christmas parties with engraved invitations and "Walnut Hill" as the address in bold calligraphy.
Beth scheduled a walk-through the same afternoon and just as quickly as I entered through its big double doors, I was home.
It was a Southerner's dream with its sweeping staircase and pocket doors.
The house had been neglected in some areas, but there were 11 fireplaces total and I had been assured that they were all in perfect working condition.
My first night in the house I was awakened from a sound sleep by scratches that seemed to be coming from every direction at once.
My second night, there were hissing sounds coupled with the scratching. It echoed through the pipes and meandered just behind the laundry shoots and fireplace screens.
After a week of no sleep, I was convinced that my house belonged to Satan and that he used it as a summer home when Amityville was leased to tourists.
Because I had spent my entire savings on this house, there was no money left to call out the Catholic Church for a much needed exorcism.
Just as I was beginning to lose my fight with sanity, Orkin showed up on my doorstep and advised me that I had possum living in my attic.
At night, they would climb up those damned walnut trees and have possum parties with all their little possum friends.
I was now convinced they were in the attic smoking dope and laughing at me.
It took another week for Orkin to repair the hole and animal rescue to catch all those bastards, but on a rainy Monday morning, I was there to witness the last of my squatters hauled off.
I remember feeling an overwhelming sense of relief as I watched the guy load the cage with that overgrown rat into the back of the van and for a second our eyes met.
My dearest friends, you can now understand why I do not harbor much affinity for vermin, but it is my hope you also understand why this study was so appealing.
Apparently after studying the mating habits of this particular species of English rats, called Meadow Voles, it appears they mate for life.
After copulating the first time, the male shows affection and prefers the company of his mate as opposed to all the other hoochie rat sluts running around in short rat skirts wearing too much makeup.
It seems there is a chemical produced in their little male brains called vasopressin, which is produced after sex. Scientists believe it to be the cause of the sudden onset monogamy.
Now I am left to wonder who I need to contact to get this chemical in pill form.
-Christian
crose@unews.com
