For as long as I can recall, there has been a hole in the ground here. People stop to look at it, and then reflexively kick dirt into it because it looks like a tripping hazard. The next day the hole is back. It’s the opposite of healing up.

There’s more than one of them. They’re in a cluster, like herpes. People stand around and speculate about our holes, as people will do. The consensus is they’re rat holes. I have never known exactly where rats live but people talk about rat holes all the time, and never in an approving way. They must exist.

Other than kicking dirt into the holes, we haven’t done anything about them. And we’ve never seen anyone going in or out. For decades, now, we haven’t seen anyone going in or out. If they’re rats, they’re considerate about it. It’s like finding out the new folks in the house on the corner are cooking meth or dissecting small woodland creatures in their basement: if they’re quiet? Hey. Live and let live.

One time, genuinely worried that someone will snap their ankle stepping in the hole, I got a big pile of rocks and dumped them in. The next day the hole was back, good as new, with a short masonry wall around it, some foundation plantings, and a tiny mailbox. I thought about flooding it with a hose, but then the next day we’d find an entire aqueduct system draining to the street. Bridges, tunnels, drop shafts, siphons, the works.

I don’t really love the idea of a rat hole near the house. But one doesn’t want to judge. Until you actually see signs of nefarious activity, you should keep a lid on your prejudicial nature, just in general. This is true of people too. I mean, I believe I am capable of alerting to an actual threat, but I don’t want to walk around inside a dark cloud of suspicion. That’s a heavy burden to haul around with you, and lazy too, always making judgments based on rank generalizations without any effort to determine the truth. There are too many people like that already. I don’t want to be another one.

Can you imagine it? What if, say, you were a complete failure as a human being with no redeeming features whatsoever, contributing nothing, surviving on pure bullshit and self-promotion, culminating in a nasty-ass reality TV show, having no inkling of shared commonality with the human world—a person manifestly unqualified for any position requiring your thumb to be out of your ass, and you got a gigantic megaphone and blamed random disasters on diversity hiring? No, it could never happen. Too far-fetched.

I looked up rat holes. Says here that a family of around eight rats can live in a given burrow, stashing food in the pantry cupboards and building multiple levels. It sounds cozy, actually. The description fit our holes to a T: size, location, several entrances, a fan of dirt at the top: let’s just call it a veranda. I had to admire the persistence of the holes over the many years. This has clearly been a long-planned underground operation, and we have no idea how extensive it is really, or how many are involved.

But since there doesn’t seem to be anything to do about them, I recast them along friendlier lines. They probably work elsewhere, such as the Mexican restaurant dumpster down the street, and I’ve just missed seeing them on their morning and evening commute. Which means they’re upscale rats, living in a bedroom community, as it were, quietly raising hawk and coyote food. I can give them a pass for now.

And I will, until the day I see them emerge from their holes bearing chunks of insulation, electrical wiring, gold, hooch, a little black book of hot underage rats, and a plan.

By that time it will be too late to vote the assholes out.

We’ll just have to keep that pile of rocks handy.