Let’s pretend you were the leader of a village.

And during your tenure as leader, you went around at night to all the chicken coops in the village, and bit the heads off of all the chickens. It doesn’t matter why you chose this particular distraction. It could have been macramé.

One of the children wakes up one night, and through their bedroom window, spots you committing your nefarious deeds.

The child tells their parents, friends, teachers – anyone who will listen.

But the child’s story is dismissed as ridiculous. You blame it on rats.

Until someone else sees it too on another night.

Suddenly, the rumour gains some momentum. Your fellow villagers cast side-long glances at you as you pass by. The mood shifts when you enter the local pub.

People become passively hostile towards you.

Eventually, cornered by your constituents and a lack of convenient foils, you cave.

You hold a village meeting, and with your hat in your hand, somberly and with great remorse, admit to your terrible secret activity.

You extol the virtues of your village, and genuflect upon the ruin and disappointment you have wrought.

You regale them with your future prospects’ and your renewed commitment to the villages’ sanctity and success.

You gaze proudly out to the crowd. Your magnanimous expression beaming down like a fresh, new sunrise.

You wrap up your apology-laden speech, giving time and space for your fellow villagers to reflect upon and process your words. They look at you, studying, contemplating.

And just like that, they lynch you for the bastard that you are.

Wake up, Toronto. You’ve got a rat problem.