New York City belongs to the rats
Before I moved to New York City five and a half years ago, the warnings were never about astronomical rent prices, apocalyptic winters or days-long subway delays. They were about rats. Former Manhattanites authoritatively spoke of them with the kind of hushed dread usually reserved to conjure biblical plagues. These weren’t mere animals, I was told, but tiny demons in fur coats – miniature Tony Sopranos with tails – who were quick to scuttle from the shadows at the merest whiff of a discarded bagel, bold enough to set up camp in your kitchen and perfectly willing to maul a callow pug or nibble on an unsuspecting baby. One friend cautioned me to keep the toilet lid shut at all times.
