Rats Goeth Before A Fall

It was a beautiful day today....spring in the air, moist air, fresh and clean and all was good in my world.

The poodle stayed behind while the other dogs went for a long walk. I was feeling pretty, well....smug is a good word. I usually try to stay part of the background, and manage it quite well. this whole writing thing is about what is around me, not me. However, I had on this wonderful jacket someone gave me as a gift....it's a swing coat from 1942. Beautifully constructed, wonderful lines, good square shoulders, it will last another 20 years with care. In a medium weight, well woven wool, red, cream and navy plaid... I think this coat is amazing. And, in even this part of NYC, people stop and say something to me about it. That in itself is a compliment to the design and beauty of the garment.

So, I'm feeling smug. It's one of those times I'm thinking, "I look okay." I'm walking down the street, my nice swing coat on, my jeans fitting in a good way, my red flats slipping along the sidewalk, creating a sweet sound when they make contact with the concrete...nothing at all like the confident clip of my boots.

I come up to the curb, and across the street is an ornate firehouse. It's out of some old film, out of place in the high rise buildings around it... polished and marble and rococo beauty. Looking up, I see faces in the windows.... looking down on the dogs. Pointing to the pit bull. More faces join, and the light changes, meaning I'll be walking directly across and under these windows, now with a decent number of men watching. I have a little la-de-da smile...something I've not had in aeons. Last time was in April. A flirty smile, a look at me smile.

I slow down, let the dogs extend my arm, stretch out my legs, glance upwards under my lashes. We are being watched....waved to. I smile full on now.

Then, as we walk past the 42 black trash bags, I hear it. A rustle among the bags. A squeak. Two white heads turn as one.

Before I can do anything, they both leap over the mound of trash bags, taking me head first with them. There, before my second story audience, I'm drug onto the top of a mound of garbage bags as the terriers go after the rat. I managed to back down and get my feet under me, and then pulled to haul them out from under the truck where they had it cornered. I had to leave walking backwards, dragging them with me, a piece of paper stuck to my jeans that I removed when I was out of sight.

I'm pretty sure I heard laughter... I'd like to think it was the wind.

I felt it best to not walk back by our local fire station, and instead to go the two blocks out of my way on the return trip home. I doubt we'll ever go that way again, and, should the flat catch fire... well, things can be replaced, can't they?