My eight-year-old son came running into the house. "Mama, there's a rat in the tank!"
"What?" I asked. "Where? What tank?"
"The one outside, where the frog and tadpoles used to live."
Oh. That one. For a minute I was worried it was our fish tank or our African Clawed Frog's tank. "Is it alive or dead?" I asked.
"So what are you going to do with it?"
My son shrugged his shoulders. "Nothing."
"Okay." I picked up a load of laundry and took it upstairs.
Bubba followed me. "But, Mama, aren't you going to do anything about it?"
I shook my head. "Not my department."
(So, ladies and gentlemen, how long do you think the dead rat will remain floating in that tank?)