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“Under no circumstances am I loaning you my gun.”
Anderson Archer bristled, standing just inside his pool house and looking out at his backyard. The six-figure renovations had transformed the backyard of his Highland Park home into a grotto, with a curving, lopsided boomerang of a pool that ended in two separate hot tubs. There was even a bridge, stretching up over the point of the boomerang, away from the entrance to the pool house and back towards the main house. It looked like paradise, except for the rats.
“It’s for the rats. The nutria. They’re in my backyard.” Anderson said. Nutria had the musky odor of ferrets, and fell somewhere between beavers and muskrats in size, with oily brown fur, smaller teeth, and short, rounded tails. They lived in a network of tunnels stretch
