3 days ago
My husband was bitten by a rat. Here's why it made me grateful.
We both stared for a moment and then scampered home to tend his wounds.
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Until recently, my husband and I lived in Brighton, where the rats are dumpster denizens with mangy fur, scars, and all the desperate energy of creatures that live on trash and the remnants of student pizza parties. The first time I saw a Roslindale rat, I did a double take: shiny fur, clean noses, little white paws. They're almost cute. They're basically pets, fed from the shaken-off bird seed beneath the feeders in almost every yard. I didn't fear them, not like I did the ones that swarmed on trash day in Cleveland Circle.
Clearly, I should have. One of them bit my husband.
Just like the woman in the Fenway, we went to the hospital. The staff were quick and professional, if trying their best not to show their horror or bemusement. Me too. They were also surprised to learn where we lived: on a residential block in Roslindale, with no dumpsters, only a mile from the hospital in which we sat. 'Here?' one of them said. Yes, here.
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My husband was given the largest penicillin pills I've ever seen, which he took multiple times a day for the next few days to prevent
In between visits from hospital personnel, my husband filed a 'Rodent Activity' report in the Boston 311 app on his phone while I asked permission to tell friends and family. Guess where we are? Guess why? Within an hour and a half, we were back home, my husband's ankle was bandaged, and his prescription was waiting at the pharmacy.
The next morning, two city employees, both of them something like rat catchers, called to get the full story and detailed location, and to let my husband know they were coming by our neighborhood that day. One of them explained through a thick Boston accent that his crew sometimes got bitten by rats whose nests were being cleaned out, but that an unprovoked bite was 'supah weahd,' which it was.
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But maybe not? Maybe not anymore?
Everything about that night was supah weahd, but it made me grateful. Thank God for Boston, where the rats bite, but there's good health care. Thank God for Boston, where the 311 alerts are monitored and not one, but two city officials promptly took action. Actually, three city officials: A week later, my husband got a call from someone in the public health department to see if he was Rat Bite Feverish. He wasn't. He's fine.
For that matter, thank God for Massachusetts, which runs the Health Connector through which I buy our health insurance. For years, my husband and I have been adjunct instructors, unbenefited for the benefit of the university's bottom line. So it is far from a perfect world. The rats are biting, unprovoked. But I consider myself lucky to live in a place where public services are still for the benefit of the public.
And what became of my husband's adversary? After the hospital, we drove by the scene of the crime. It was maybe midnight. The rat, formerly lying motionless on its side, was gone.
