How I Swallowed the Frog and Faced the Rats

We’ve got rats. Not the metaphorical kind—the real, whiskered, skittering kind. They’ve found a way into our apartment again, and while it’s been an on-again, off-again problem, the situation finally reached critical mass.

Our dog, once a passionate rodent chaser, now lounges next to me with the air of someone who has retired from law enforcement. She would like me to remind you that she is not a cat, and rodent control was never in her job description. Fair enough.

So, it’s fallen to me. Time to take care of the breach under our built-in kitchen counter, which means... I must swallow The Frog.

For the uninitiated, The Frog is that dreaded task you avoid—usually one that requires uncomfortable physical contortions, arcane tools, and the courage to stare into the abyss of a home repair project. My frog? Removing the dishwasher.

Step One: Fantasies and Calculations

Before touching a wrench, I watched an oversimplified five-minute YouTube tutorial. I did the math in my head:

• 5 minutes of pro doing the same job on a video = 5 hours of my twisted reality
• Multiply by tools I don’t have
• Add a pilgrimage to Baller’s Hardware
• Round up for pain, suffering, and breaks to question life choices

Total estimate: One entire day, assuming I survive.

For reference, I get exhausted just sitting up in an office chair. This was going to be a 9/10 difficulty day. I told my husband I needed his help—not for technical expertise, but moral support and tool-passing. Off we went.

Step Two: KT vs. Logic (and Gravity)

Mark, ever the voice of reason, suggested we call in a contractor. Naturally, I refused. He was right, of course, but I had something to prove. Spoiler: If you’re tempted to follow my example, lie down until the feeling passes and just hire someone. They would’ve had it done in an hour.

In the first hour, I discovered I lacked a socket wrench adaptor small enough for the dishwasher bolts. So, I got creative and made a handle using a vice grip wrench. MacGyver would’ve been proud. Two hours later, I had shut off the power and water and adjusted the dishwasher’s legs.

By the way—why doesn’t this thing plug in like a toaster?

Then came the lip. A floor-height discrepancy between the kitchen and the subfloor under the counter. Another little surprise the YouTube video failed to mention. After another hour of wrangling and minor carpentry, the dishwasher finally came free. It turns out it’s surprisingly light for something that fought so hard to stay put..

Insight

The power cord and the water hoses were long enough for me to pull the whole unit out without disconnecting anything. Way simpler than I realized. My insight is a problem is less so when you pull it out and look at it from a different angle.

Step Three: Behold, the Rubble

Once the dishwasher was out, we got our first glimpse of the area beneath the counter—an archaeological site containing evidence of a previous contractor’s quick demo job to make room for our stone countertop. Debris, gaps, and, yes, potential rodent entry points all stared back at me.

Now, sealing the breach and reconnecting everything is still on the to-do list. But getting that dishwasher out? That was the monster I had to face. The frog I finally swallowed.

Final Thoughts

Would I recommend this approach? No. Would I do it again? Also no. But do I feel slightly victorious despite the sore muscles and bruised ego? Absolutely.

Rat-proofing isn't glamorous, but it’s real life. And sometimes, real life means crawling on the floor with a wrench in your teeth, a dog watching with passive disapproval, and a husband who was absolutely, totally, 100% right.

Bon appétit, frog eaters.

Epilogue: Bondo, Regrets, and the Persistence of Rats

As it turns out, my initial patch job with expanding foam insulation was... not effective.

Knowing that pulling the dishwasher out was a matter of leverage with a long screwdriver I was quicker to act on the new assault. The rats returned, having tunneled through the foam like it was a welcome mat. Our building contractor—who had warned us this would happen—gave us the real solution: Bondo.

For those unfamiliar, Bondo is a two-part compound originally made for auto body repair. Mix the paste with the hardener, and within minutes, it turns into a yogurt-like sludge that hardens into a rock-solid shell. It smells like melted Legos and regrets for a few days after use, but it stops even the most determined rodent renovators.

Naturally, I watched six YouTube tutorials to psych myself up. Armed with cardboard for mixing and a plastic bag for disposal, I was determined to keep things tidy.

Full disclosure: I should never be trusted with substances that are sticky, messy, or stainable.

Despite my best intentions, I ended up Bondo-ing my watch, embedding it into my arm hair, and adding some unexpected texture to my pants. It was like a preschool art project gone rogue. But the hole? Eventually, I got enough Bondo packed into the gap and adjoining wall to seal the breach.

Hopefully, this problem is solved.

Will the rats try to find another way in? Probably. Will I be ready for them next time? Yes, because I know how to get a dishwasher out from under the counter and I know how to wrap myself in plastic when working with Bondo. But for now, the portal is sealed, the dishwasher is back, and the dog still isn’t interested.

Victory, in this house, is measured in hardened plastic, minor chemical burns, and a few glorious days without critters scurrying around our floor. My kitchen is now a fortress, a Bondo bullwork of truth justice and the American way.