Okay, here's the REALLY icky one, given its own post because it deserves the full treatment. A mere paragraph is insufficient to convey the tale of how Mel Is A Mighty Huntress, Yo. This is copied from my blog and... er... has had the details fleshed out, because my blog is not a Gross Out thread and random visitors to it have not been adequately warned.
Our house has an insulated roof space. Roof spaces get rats. It's part of the whole thing of living in a house; it's shelter, and all sorts of things want to SHARE. Well, we don't particularly want to share with rats, so the attic has traps in it, and every so often the Good Ethnic Boy (hubby) will climb up there to re-bait and/or re-set any traps that need it, and recover the... ah... occasional victim. (This is not because I'm squeamish or lazy; it's because I'm taller than him, and don't fit up there very well. Sensible division of household chores, and all that.)
Choosing the right trap is important. We use snap traps, because live traps leave you with a rat that has to be dealt with somehow, and frankly we don't check often enough for that to be humane. Snap traps, however, have to be strong. Just about any snap trap can deal with a mouse. A rat caught in a weak snap trap is not a dead rat; it is an upset rat with a very heavy necklace.
About a month ago, at a bit past midnight one Sunday night, one of the snap traps in the roof went off. I heard it, because it was in a spot between insulation batts above the bathroom.
I then continued hearing it.
Please see the above paragraph about choosing the right trap.
The Good Ethnic Boy was asleep. He continued to be asleep. He's a heavy sleeper, and I wasn't going to wake him up; poor honey had had an awful few days, and I didn't think being woken up by me and immediately required to go deal with a Situation in the roof would be a good way to start the week. So, I got the ladder out of the garage, got his heavy gardening gloves and a torch and a bucket, climbed up there...
...got the rat...
...and was faced with having to deal
with the rat.
I like rats. I have had many, many pet rats in the past, and probably the only reason I don't have pet rats now is because the Good Ethnic Boy does not like pet rats. (He has also nixed the idea of pet snakes, dangit, and I'm pretty sure if I were to catch a poisonous spider to keep as a pet again - yes, again - he would be Deeply Upset.) However, I wasn't about to try to keep an adult wild rat as a pet even if hubby thought it was a wonderful idea, and while I felt very sorry for it... well, releasing it would have invalidated the whole point of putting kill traps in the roof, and leaving it stuck in the trap looking at me would have been inhumane.
So I took the rat (still in trap) out to the garage, found an extremely dirty towel that had been used to wrap stuff for storage and then in the garden, found a hammer, covered the rat with the towel so it couldn't see its doom coming (and so it wasn't looking at me), aimed VERY VERY CAREFULLY, and... applied the hammer.
It was quick and humane. I am a Mighty Huntress. I am frickin' CONAN. Okay, no, not Conan, he wouldn't have apologised to the rat and probably would have eaten the darn thing for breakfast the next day, but Conan also doesn't live in a nice house with a lovely husband and people try to kill him all the time. I can live without being Conan.
The Good Ethnic Boy was very impressed when I told him the next morning, very grateful that I didn't wake him up to do the Manly Thing, and frankly surprised that I didn't get stuck up there between joists or trusses or whatever the awkward wooden bits you have to climb through are called. So was I. Also, if I ever have to go up there again, this time I will get the kneepads out of the garage cupboard first, because ow.