Bert came waltzing in to the Mule Barn truck stop the other day in high spirits. We knew we were in for yet another lecture. Sure enough.

Even as he pulled up a chair at the philosophy counter and world dilemma think tank, he started in.

“The world, gentlemen,” he said. “The world is cresting on a multiplicity of inventiveness at the moment and I’m flat in the middle of it!”

He talks like that sometimes.

We all pretended we hadn’t heard him and sipped our coffee.

We’re like that sometimes, too.

“Maizie got it for me for Christmas,” he said, looking at us as he flipped his coffee cup to the upright and ready-for-filling position.

Finally, Dud couldn’t stand it any more. “What was that, Bert?”

“It’s the Rat Zapper!” he said. “The cutting edge in domestic varmint control. The computer age has finally come to the wonderful world of pest whacking, people.”

“What do you think?” said Doc. “Think he’s going to tell us about it anyway?”

A general nod of agreement. “OK, Bert, what the heck is a rat zapper?”

“That’s Rat Zapper, capital letters, Doc, ‘cause it’s a brand name. You see, you just plug this little box into the wall and put it behind something. When the rat goes in and tries to eat the bait, he steps on this metal plate and is electrocuted. You just take it out and dump it and reset it.

“The first thing you do, though, is put some bait in it and let him go get it without the electricity, then you plug that baby in, and ZAP! Oh man, it’s just great!”

“High tech rat killin’?” Doc said.

“Oh, you bet. And not only that, but for a little extra, you can have the trap ring your cell phone to let you know when you’ve caught one. And you can get a whole network of these thingies and they’ll each call you when they have a fried rat for you. Isn’t that amazing?”

“Well, Bert,” I chimed in, “I didn’t realize you had a rat problem over at your place.”

“I don’t,” he said, looking discouraged. “But you know, if I put some corn out, maybe by spring….?”

The cover of the new family novel, Whimsy Castle, was painted by the author’s 15-year-old granddaughter, Baelee Randles. Her first cover.