LitCamp Read Aloud - August 2023
Lessons Learned the Hard Way
By Anjali Cameron, San Francisco
“We need one of these,” I said, lowering the crinkled newspaper in my hands.
“What?” said my husband.
“A rat czar! New York just hired one.”
Peter sighed, took another sip of his coffee and returned his gaze to his phone.
“Dude, you’ve got to get over these rats.”
I narrowed my eyes and snarled silently in his direction. He knew very well that I would never get over the rats lurking in our backyard. And not for the obvious reasons of excrement, disease and fruit thievery commonly associated with rats. I was attacked, you see. During the pandemic. It all started one night when we decided to enjoy an al fresco dinner. We grilled and sat around our table, perched on a bed of smooth round pebbles. The breeze fluttered the leaves of our prolific plum, apple and fig trees. Rosé, hot dogs, juice boxes and chips were consumed in quantity and after a few hours, we retired inside for the nightly routine of child wrangling, book reading and bedtime.
Warm inside the house, I was unaware that a scourge of tiny bugs had hitchhiked in on my yoga pants. Over the next several weeks, I woke to angry, itchy red bites around my breasts, bikini line and armpits. Save for a couple of small bites, my children and husband were spared. Nothing was visible on the bed sheets, not a single telltale sign of bed bugs or other infamous vermin. Thus began a long and torturous saga to identify the source of my torment and destroy it. Exterminators were called. Sheets, cushions, and clothes were washed twice and thrice. Finally, I called upon the only people I could trust, the internet sisterhood known as Facebook Mama’s Group.
Describing my ailments, I was met with comfort and support from a few survivors of a pest that fit the description of mine to a tee. Rat mites. Yes, you heard right. For weeks, the microscopic mites that feed on the bodies of live rats had been feeding on me, and me alone. My dermatologist confirmed the diagnosis and assured me this was “common.” Apparently rat mites like women most. Don’t ask me why. But as I followed advice and covered my bites in steroids, my ankles in coconut oil and sprinkled the periphery of every room in our house with diatomaceous earth, a powder made of crushed crustaceans, both my husband and our exterminator looked extremely dubious. The exterminator claimed he’d never seen a confirmed case of rat mites. My husband once again asked if it was something I ate.
And then……on the exterminator’s third visit, as he yet again inspected the small patio leading to our backyard, I felt a tiny pin prick on my chest and saw a flash of movement. What looked like a grain of pepper was racing across my bosom. I screamed for tape, Peter hustled, the exterminator gawked and I trapped the mite. I captured it, identified it, and felt triumphant. I trusted my instincts and I learned, over the course of two months of pain, anxiety and feeling unsafe in my own bed, that when you sit in your urban backyard for an extended period of time, you must always, and I mean always, stay vigilant for rat mites.