That summer we had been invaded by rats. We tried traps, home remedies and poison but they kept coming back. My mother, traumatised after having to sweep one out of the kitchen, went to ask for professional help. Many years have passed since that summer and the story has become a myth with blurred details, but I imagine her going to talk to the typical exterminators in overalls. What follows is the sentence that begins this story: “The river has risen, ma’am, and the rats are on wreaking havoc. If you live nearby, the only solution is to get a cat.”
I didn't agree. I'd never had a cat, my friends I visited the most didn't have cats, and I still remembered the grandmother of a friend from primary school who had tried to contain her cat and had ended up with her arm all scratched. Also, my mother had always been against having pets, because, she said, our house doesn't have a garden or a yard and the poor creatures suffer being cooped up all day. Except for two …