“At the heart of ratcism is the religious assertion that God made a creative mistake when He brought some critters into being.” – Friedrich Otto Hertz’s rat
Most people dislike rats. For some, it’s the misplaced belief that today’s domestic rats are the same critters that spread the Bubonic Plague throughout Europe during the Middle Ages. Of course, this is absurd. Any historian worth his salt – like Mel Gibson, for example – will tell you that there was no Bubonic Plague, just like there was no Holocaust or 1969 moon landing. And even if there was a Plague – and I’m not saying there was – the poor rats were mere pawns manipulated by the true perpetrators: fleas, who used the rats as a form of mass rapid transit with a conveniently-attached dining car.
For others, it’s the fear that rats will chew off their babies faces while they sleep. To those people, I say, “Wipe the friggin’ jelly off your kid’s mouth before putting them to bed.” And why do you have wild rats scurrying through your home in the first place? Have you never heard of Truly Nolan? Could it be that you live in a Hoarders-worthy pigsty and the stacks of newspaper that form the interior walls of your home provide perfect nesting material for vermin? In that case, rats are the least of your worries. Still, others get the willies just looking at a rat’s long, rather scaly tail – and understandable phobia considering how many deaths are caused every year by vicious rat tail thrashings that can leave a person’s skin looking like a slave’s back in Roots.
In first grade, my parents bought me a gerbil. Its name escapes me, but it’s demise will be forever ingrained in my memory as one of the most horrifying moments of my young life. This is what happens when your parents entrust the animal care in your home to a person who will eventually become an infamous cat burglar. As our pet sitter was too occupied with stealing jewels from stately Miami mansions to remember to close the gerbil cage properly, we returned from our vacation to discover Whatever-Its-Name-Was in a bloody, mutilated mess – and our cat, Pumpkin, well fed.
In sixth grade I again took a chance with rodents, adopting an albino mouse with red eyes against my parents wishes. What can I say? Ratcism against white mice is just as pervasive as it is against black mice. Skittish, it preferred hiding and spending time alone to socializing with humans. Late at night, I would find it reading comic books or performing complicated math equations on the aquarium glass. I named it Snowflake and promptly forgot about it.
In college, I purchased two gerbils: Jules and Sylvian, the latter named after the lead singer of my favorite band, Japan. Both were biters and really should have ended any interest I had in small, furry creatures that were unable to purr. To add further insult to injury, Sylvian refused to learn to play guitar and rejected the spiffy stage costumes I hand-sewed for him.
Despite my lackluster experiences with rodents, I adopted my first rat in 1999 and named him Scout, after Demi Moore surreptitiously stole that name right out of my future baby book – emaciated, Botoxed, cougar bitch that she is. Mr. Scout About – as he soon was known – was a delightful change from the socially-awkward, skin-chomping vermin of my past. Outgoing and interested in all-things-human, Mr. Scout About loved to ride on my shoulder as I vacuumed and managed to win over my pet-resistant grandmother, who appreciated the fact that he was always willing to eat his fruit and vegetables.
“Why aren’t you eating your fruit?” she would ask when I joined her for breakfast on Sundays.
Sighing, I’d reply, “Me Ma, you know I don’t like pineapple and oranges. I have texture issues.”
“Mr. Scout About eats all his pineapple,” she’d retort. “He doesn’t have texture issues.” Damn that suck up rat!
Black and white like a Holstein, Mr. Scout About was an impressive specimen with testicles the size of Everlasting Gobstoppers. When he passed away at the ripe old age of four, I became despondent and it took many years for me to muster up the courage to again invest my love and attention in an animal whose typical life span is shorter than that of a boy band.
After I’d met my future hubby and we’d settled into our first place together, I broke the news to him. “I’m going to get another rat.” The announcement thudded heavily on the floor between us like a four lead bricks, an anvil and a two ton Acme safe. It took a couple of hours to convince him, but Hubby finally came around while he was packing his bags and I’d chained myself to his right leg like an Occupy protester. “Trust me!” I’d whined. “You’ll love having a rat. They’re so smart and cute and just having one around makes me feel like giving blow jobs several times a day.”
Over the course of the next few years, Hubby and I would own several rats – or ratties, as rat afficionados like to call them. Though each rattie was special to us in her own way, Gwynnie claimed our hearts forever. A Dumbo rat, her ears were large and set on the sides of her head like an elephant. Her silky brown fur was reminiscent of a particularly nice mink coat – not that I would ever think of making a coat out of the skins of rats. They’re way too small. Maybe a purse, though.
On the petite side, Guinevere Cornflower Longshanks won over the most ardent rat-cists with her curious nature and habit of nuzzling her muzzle against your neck. As she was also talented at containing her poo for long periods of time, Gwynnie often accompanied us on our outings around town, including visits to restaurants that allowed pets. Surprisingly, no one ever complained about Gwynnie’s presence as we sipped wine or ate dinner at an outside table. A few people would shudder as they walked by, but many asked if they could pet her or have their photo taken with her.
That’s not to say that her presence was always appreciated.
One morning, Hubby and I had grabbed breakfast at a popular downtown restaurant, accompanied by Gwynnie who remained in her faux-Chanel, pink and black quilted carrier bag throughout the meal since we ate indoors. Afterwards, Hubby took off in one direction to run an errand and I headed to my car. As I exited the restaurant, I removed Gwynnie from her carrier bag, placed her on my shoulder and proceeded down the sidewalk. As I turned the corner, I passed a dark-haired woman standing alone, draped in a blindingly-loud, floral-printed dress and holding a small infant. As any person who walks the streets with an exotic animal will tell you, it’s not unusual for passersby to react. Particularly if you pass close to someone who has an unjustified and phobic fear of your particular species of pet.
However, as I passed the woman, she said nothing. Ten seconds later, she still said nothing. Fifteen seconds later. Nada. By now, I’m half a block away from her. Twenty seconds later a hear a piercing scream followed by, “It’s a rat. She’s got a rat!” I stopped and looked over my shoulder at the woman. She’d gone into hysterics. “Oh, my Gawd!” she screeched, pointing at me as she clutched her child protectively. For the next half a minute, Crazy Lady continued to scream to everyone around her and in the Sarasota/Bradenton metropolitan area that there was a rat somewhere in my general vicinity. It’s interesting to note that when I passed her earlier, she’d apparently been waiting alone for friends who were in the restaurant. Now that they were standing nearby on the sidewalk, she had an audience. And she was suddenly very, very afraid.
I have a strict policy against attempting to engage hysterical wackadoos in rational conversation, so I turned back around and continued walking away from her. The fact that the supposed threat was receding further and further from her location did nothing to muffle her crude Jersey-accented cries that the sky was falling and that the appearance of a rat must be signaling the coming Apocalypse.
In The Expression of the Emotionsin Man and Animals, Darwin argued that the “fight or flight” reaction in animals demonstrates a heightened ability to react to a threat, and concluded that the use of emotion to prepare to either fight or flee gives those animals a physical advantage over others. However, Darwin didn’t examine the animal who reacts to an event that is, in fact, not a threat. Had I been walking towards Crazy Jersey Lady, then it would have made sense for her to react emotionally and to bare her teeth and shriek in preparation for a fight. Clearly, she wasn’t the fleeing type. However, as I was walking away from Crazy Jersey Lady and was over half way down a long block when she finally reacted, I have to assume one of five things:
1) Crazy Lady had deposited another infant – this one completely unprotected and covered in honey – ahead of me on the sidewalk;
2) Crazy Lady’s understanding of “fight or flight” involves a physical scuffle with other Delta passengers in order to determine who gets to use their Frequent Flyer Miles to upgrade to First Class;
3) Crazy Lady had no depth perception;
4) Crazy Lady thought that Gwynnie was the reincarnation of her former husband – whom she had murdered – and feared he was now seeking vengeance on both her soul and her jugular; or
3) Crazy Lady was suffering from histrionic personality disorder – a condition in which people afflicted behave in an emotional or overly-dramatic manner in order to attract attention to themselves.
Having known a few people who suffer from the latter, I have little tolerance for this kind of behavior. In fact, it’s at times like these that I wish a giant dinosaur would appear from nowhere and simply gobble the shrieking nitwit up in one bite. However, as this was not an option, I stopped again, whirled around and shouted, “Hey, I didn’t say a word about that ugly dress you’re wearing!”
Staring at me open-mouthed for a moment, the woman finally clamped her lips togther and I resumed my stroll to my car.
Upon relating the tale to Hubby later that afternoon, he suggested that I should have replied, “Hey, I didn’t say anything about that monkey you’re holding.”
“But it wasn’t the baby’s fault that her mother was a muumuu-wearing lunatic,” I argued. “She didn’t cry or raise a stink. And she was a cute little monkey to boot.”
Moreover, a parent’s phobias are not necessarily passed down to their young. My mother calls in a SWAT team if a Daddy Long Legs wanders over her threshold. If a roach crosses her path, she won’t hesitate to crush it beneath her foot. However, the presence of two extra legs and spinneret glands render her completely immobilized. I realize that in the comic book world, Spider Man’s web-shooting abilities are considered a super power, of sorts – but he can’t compete with real superheroes. Let’s face it, the only lamer super hero is Aqua Man. Unlike my mother, I possess no such fears of arachnids, though I’m not necessarily a fan. I admit to a fantasy in which I remove all of a spider’s legs and then let it just sit there – give it some time to think about its reputation and all the flies it has sucked dry in its lifetime.
Let’s face it. Spiders and rats share a similar reputation. They’re believed to be sneaky. Both have beady eyes – though spiders have multiple sets of them – and fangs. We like to think that neither of them are up to any good – and with spiders, that’s probably true. Rats, on the other hand, are the most intelligent and social of domestic rodents and make the best pets. A recent study has confirmed that rats even feel empathy and express altruism for other rats – a trait previously thought to belong only to humans. In fact, Scientific American reports that rats broke their buds out of cages even though it meant sharing chocolate chips with them. Chocolate chips, people! No woman on this planet suffering from PMS would bother rescuing their screaming infant from the path of an oncoming train if a bag of Hershey’s Kisses was waved in front of her nose. Rat are seriously unselfish creatures.
Unlike gerbils and hamsters who spent their nights dreaming of finger burgers, rats aren’t biters. Unlike cats, their urine barely smells, doesn’t stain, and can be used to mask your own personal BO. What’s that smell? Oh, it’s not my armpits; Fifi just had a little accident on my shoulder. And unlike children, they eat their veggies and fruit without complaint and have little to no interest in owning an Xbox, iPad, sneakers, or 17 shades of nail polish. They also won’t force you into taking them to see Madagascar 9.
And if you’re lucky, some lubberly, beef-witted giglet will freak out at the sight of your rattie, you’ll film it, post it on YouTube and it will go viral. Like this video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WfkyDecZ6Tc
***
If you enjoyed this post, please follow me on Facebook by clicking here and express your blog love by sharing this post with your friends – just click on any of the icons below.
Funnier In Writing 
If a woman was screaming, “It’s a rat!” while I was walking down the street, even if I had a ginormous rat on my shoulder, I’d wonder whether she was talking about ME.
Did you at least entertain this possibility, too?
Hmmm. Perhaps she knew I’d ratted out Joey the Bull and Tony “Ape Porn” Castellano.
My younger niece developed an attachment to small furry rodents and was allowed to keep them at her father’s house until they caught the attention of Fluffy or Muffry whatever they called the feral cat du jour. They were then dropped off a my sister’s apartment where the attracted the attention of Maggie the Cat From Hell. Rats are civil, gerbils eat their young.
Excellent point, Tom! Gerbils are the real enemy.
This has got to be one of the best posts i have read yet. When i read the title i was so excited to hear that someone shares my love for my favorite furry little creature incapable of purring (i am also a cat lover). My rat, Nubbs, affectionately named for the missing portion of his tail, passed reciently. I was devistated. This post has inspired me to go get another furry little friend to ride around on my shoulder and fill the empty cage in my living room. Thank you. (now how do i tell my live-in boyfriend?)
Promise sexual favors! I’m so glad you enjoyed the post. We are also cat lovers. In fact, one of our felines, Magellan, had quite the thing for Fifi Trixibelle. He was just fascinated with her. A crush, really. Sadly, we are rat-less these days. I took Gwynnie’s death really hard (and spent a couple thousand bucks on her at the vet’s office), so Hubby has threatened to leave me if I adopt another rat. Still, I always stop and visit the little critters at the pet store. Good luck with your new rattie. I’m so sorry for your recent loss.
he took it very well, surprisingly enough. all he said was “may as well, we already have a cage”. I think he misses Nubbs as muuch as i do. And i’m sorry for you loss as well. I know that when we lost Nubbs my entire family mourned. I know how hard it is.
Thanks. It’s been a few years now and I just focus on how much I love our three kitties. But a little rattie is never far from my mind…
he took it very well, surprisingly enough. all he said was “may as well, we already have a cage”. I think he misses Nubbs as muuch as i do. And i’m sorry for you loss as well. I know that when we lost Nubbs my entire family mourned. I know how hard it is. i’ll have to post pictures when i get my new rattie
The primary difference between rats and spiders is that rats are rodents and spiders are Evil Incarnate. It’s true. I’d prove it, but you couldn’t pay me to get within striking distance of one of those f*ckers.
I’ll kill all the spiders for you, Kathy V.
Aww, thanks! My hero!
Good news / Bad news: Good news, I read and enjoyed your post. Bad news, I clicked on the youtube link and ended up watching 27 videos before I finally pulled myself away and got back here. I had something really witty and topical to say, but those damn videos derailed my train of thought.
Ooops. Maybe I need to upgrade so that I can embed videos? My readers will never comment at this rate.
Oh wait! Now I remember… Politicians have given rats a bad name.
An aside, when local building projects use non-union labor, the union guys often show up with a giant inflatable rat, and set up samp as close to the site as they legally can. Word spreads among parents and grandparents, since the kiddies love to drive by and see the giant rat. Obviously, not exactly what the union protestors had in mind. Goes to show though, people don’t develop a hatred for rats until later in life than childhood.
In 5th grade, my BFF gave me a pet mouse because my nickname was Mouse. Looking back, that was a really sucky nickname, but I was so quiet I never thought to complain. Anyway, my mouse, who’s name also escapes me, only lasted about two days. He didn’t die or anything, but my mom made me give him back to my BFF after he escaped his cage on the night she was having her besties over for bridge, raced across the family room where said besties were boozing it up, somehow jumped into the TV set (it was a set back then, complete with rabbit ear antenna), and caused multiplie cases of heart palpitation, spillage on her super-sweet white carpet, and major embarrassment. My BFF and I choreographed a dance to Pop Muzic in an attempt to apologize, but Mom sent my mouse packing the next day.
You used to be quiet?
Hard to believe, right?
I still think you made that entire story up.
My dad, who is not at all mechanically inclined, had to take the back off of our television set to catch it. Do you have any idea how long it takes to do that with a butter knife?
How could I make up a dance routine to Pop Muzic? If I was lying, I would have SO picked the obvious choice. Le Freak by Chic. Duh.
Classic liar tactics – too many details.
Well, we actually started making up the dance at recess. We only put the finishing touches on it as the mouse was destroying my mom’s efforts to turn the family room into the party room, complete with grass cloth wallpaper which is totally back in style now, btw.
The hole you’ve dug is so deep now, I could bury you in it. But then I wouldn’t have the Best Blogging Bestie in the world, would I?
I cannot get overly excited by rodents of any kind, just can’t. I have friends that have Rats, they stare at me knowing I am not enthralled…I know they want to investigate, sit on me, wrap their tails around bare parts of my body, I have texture issues.
I don’t want to kill them or anything. No not that, well except certain rodents are very bad.
I loved this.
Val
Glad you enjoyed it. Wish you could have met Gwynnie. She would have changed your mind. 🙂
The hamster in my childhood home was named Burt Reynolds. I’m not sure which kid owned him, but I know I let him loose in the garage. My mom was thrilled.
After your mom ran over Burt with the car, was he known as Flat Reynolds?
I just called him squishy.
You weren’t concerned enough to even capitalize his name. That is tragic.
How about I claim it was an homage to e.b. white?
do you mean, e.e. cummings?
Fifi Trixibelle Sprinklebottom. fabulous. My sister had a bunny called Schmooopy, once, ’cause that’s how he moved. schmoop. schmoop.
shoulda screamed “OMG, she’s attacking me! A sow! Please, somebody rescue me from the cow, I mean, sow!”
For the record, I choreographed a dance to Le Freak with my grade school best friend, Cathy Butler, in our gym class and our teacher did not appreciate our efforts.
I confess I have a slight fear of rats due to some book I read in high school about killer rats, which was seriously inconvenient because rats were the cool pet to have if you were a punker and I was…kind of…maybe punk-lite…but still rebellious in my own way. I just couldn’t get past the feeling that they were smarter than me and were just waiting for me to fall asleep so they could chew my face and steal my car keys. I feel the same way about my kids sometimes and they won’t even sit on my shoulder or stay in my purse during a restaurant outing.
1984 Rat Torture
Game of Thrones – Rat Torture
El Norte tunnel rat attack scene
“At least 40 children have died, and more than 100,000 are living on the brink of starvation because of this crisis.”
“Once the rats have finished eating the bamboo plants, they plow their way through other fields, devouring grain, corn and rice. The rats even dig up and eat the seeds farmers have planted in the ground.”
http://www.gfa.ca/news/articles/rats-causing-famine-in-myanmar/
I told you rats were smart. Plus, my rats caused famine for no one because they were well-fed by me.
ROUS Princess Bride
Had to add that video too.
The rats caused famine because they were so well fed. They had plenty, bred, and proceeded to take over causing famine.
I’d rather die by zombie than by rat.
That’s just silly. At least if you were killed by a trained rat that went right for the jugular, you wouldn’t be turned into a zombie and then have to deal with that shit.
The rat wouldn’t need training for that. It would just come naturally to them as a survival instinct. Rats are smaller and they would come in large groups, so it would be harder to hide, Plus they would consume all food and water sources leaving everyone in a weakened condition. A rat attack would involve hundreds of mouths biting and claws scratching. The situation would be more hopeless than a zombie pandemic.
If I become a zombie, I encourage people to kill me to save lives. I’m not sure about the personhood of a zombie. I can see having to deal with the transformation, but I believe once the zombie comes into being anything that was me would be gone. Of course this wouldn’t be true in voodoo zombie magic, which works differently than the zombies of Walking Dead (pandemic zombies).
Really, Cristy? Rats? I’m speechless.
Like it’s the first time…wait, maybe it is.
Rat sitting was so much FUN! (Especially compared with trying to get your cat to take a pill…)
And you only have to change the litter once a week!
And you only had to change the litter once a week! Yeah, Mariah didn’t like you, did she? Bless her soul…she only liked four people: me, Matt, Anthony and Michael.
Funny! This post reminded of that scene in Inglorious Basterds where Christoph Waltz parallels the characteristics of rats and jews. That scene sure made me ponder……..not about jews but rats and their obnoxiousness. However, I am still more of a mouscist (sounded like maoist in my head). I deal with them everyday in the lab, and those nasty peskies bite, stink (I don’t know what a skunk smells like but these bad boys must sure be close) and pee each time they take in oxygen. I have nightmares!
Rats are much more civilized than mice. They wouldn’t dream of biting. Then again, what ARE you doing to those poor mice in the lab?
Well…….let’s just say that what I do is all for the greater good.
Good answer. Good answer.
I can’t imagine having a pet ever, but a rat (in a cage at all times) doesn’t sound too bad. Neither as needy as a dog, nor as bitchy as a cat. But having killed so many rats for research, I fear there’s a picture of me being passed around at the rat meetings where they conspire to give all rat-killers leptospirosis.
Come to think of it, Gwynnie used to murmur your name in her sleep…
🙂
This feels like a companion piece (or blog war) to one of my earlier posts here http://ozexpat.wordpress.com/2012/06/14/mouse-in-the-house/.
As you can see, I don’t quite share your taste for rats, although I am more concerned with the wild ones than the little domesticated darlings.
You will also see on my post that rats DO still hold the plague (one reported in the US earlier this year). But again, WILD rats…
Eek.
I promise that this was no blog war piece. And I’m sorry that you don’t share my love for ratties; if you did, your heart would grow three times its size.
You’re assuming I have a heart.
Even the Grinch had a heart.
He kind of looked like a rat, too.
Wow, I almost got lost trying to find the bottom of the comments section. Free-fall! Anyway, wonderful and insightful read. As a fellow former rattie owner, I can vouch for all you’ve said. Sweet creatures. We both cried when little Temperlina died after only 18 mo. The fact that unpredictable/nasty gerbils were your gateway rodents and you kept on going says a lot about your stamina & commitment in the pursuit of the perfect furry pet. Great bit re: your mom and spiders, too! Such a wonderful way of weaving experience + info + humor… and now, on to Mitt! xx
PS And I know you where you got Fifi Trixibelle’s name, you raider of dead rock stars’ stash of creepy-exotic kid names! 🙂
I was wondering if anyone would pick up on that. I knew I liked you, Laura!
Rats needs love too.
ever tried a dog or cat? that way you could keep a premium to your ‘blow jobs’ ha ha!!
Three cats, but they’re not nearly as fun to take for a walk as our ratties were.