Ringing In a Ratty New Year

 
Alas, 2010 has come to a close. The advent of the New Year brings with it many traditions: reflections on the year past, resolutions for the one to come, and no small amount of frivolity and pawtying on New Year’s Eve. Residents of America’s Deep South, like here in Ratlanta, Georgia where I live, also have a custom of consuming collard greens and black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day: the greens to ensure financial prosperity, and the legumes for good luck.
 
2010 has indeed been a special year for me. Perhaps the most momentous event has been the launching of this blog in mid-July, and through it I have been thrilled to bring you into my many rat-tastic adventures. From light-hearted things like taking in a NASCAR race and bringing you to my favorite sea-side saloon, Margarataville, to more serious topics, such as remembering the terrorist attacks of September 11th, I’ve been able to transport you into my world, seeing the events that happen around us from a rat’s perspective. (Watching changes on the squirrelitical scene in the wake of the November elections was pawticularly interesting.)
 
It’s also been exciting to take you into the rodent realm itself, bringing you along on my foray through the dumpsters with my rat pal Gus, observing Take-a-Human-to-Work Day as I invited you to my job as a Sewer Inspector (you know we rats just love sewers), and giving you a sneak-peek into the current events of critters like me with our very own newspaper, The Rodent Weekly. (By the way, they’re still in need of a fry cook at the China House restaurant; the position posted in the Classifieds hasn't been filled yet. If any rodents reading this are seeking employment, sniff it out.)
 
The most special times for me, however, have been those spent with the ones I love. From being christened in this new world by the people who would become my human family to having a humorous squeak with death while critter camping, spending time with these humans who so affectionately love me has been tremendously pawsome. I also got to introduce you to my lovely wife and our offspring, who most recently snuck around the hovel as I, with bated rat breath, watched Santa Paws deliver Christmas presents. Finally, I had the most squeak-tacious opportunity in my entire rat life to meet many of you, my blog followers and Muzzlebook fans, as I made my first pawsonal appearance in the village of Rex, Georgia when many of us gathered to sing Yuletide carols in early December.
 
So whether or not you consume collard greens and black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day, I hope 2011 is your most rat-tastic year yet. If you resolve, like me, to shed a few pounds (I’m beginning to develop a bit of a cheese belly), maintain your good health, or catch up on some zzzzz's, remember to be thankful for the people (and rodents!) in your life and the blessings God has given you. Stay brave (don’t be a scaredy-rat), keep your whiskers clean, and always remember to keep it squeak!
 
Keepin’ it squeak myself,
Bob

The Christ of Christmas

 
Hello, friends.
 
Have you had a merry Christmas? Spent it with family? Clawed into a hoard of ratical gifts? Supped on a squeak-a-licious Christmas dinner? (Not featuring rat meat as the main course, I hope.)
 
My Christmas – spent with my human and rodent families alike – has indeed been rat-tastic. The people reveled in their presents, including a slot-car race track for Dad (he’s really a pup at heart), beautiful pearl earrings for Mom, and lots of chocolate for the twins. My mouse wife, Bobette, and I too enjoyed our own special gifts: luxury nestlet material for her and a whisker groomer for me. We also delighted as the octuplets, Harry, Larry, Barry, Jerry, Mary, Kerry, Sherry, and Terry scratched through wrapping paper to find matching husky bran coats. (After all, as I mentioned in last week's blog, when rats marry mice we have baby rice, and our pups are brown rice; they look like their mother.) And the whole lot of us enjoyed the cheese platter left by Santa Paws. Plus, humans and rodents alike got a very special treat as the weatherman granted us Georgians an incredibly rare White Christmas here in Ratlanta.
 
But while the giving of gifts is grand and the time spent with family is fun, there’s a much more special reason we celebrate Christmas, and that, as I’m sure you already know, is the most special reason of all: to honor the birth of Jesus. This is special for rodents too, as Jesus is kind to man and beast alike. (Not to say that we’re beasts; pshaw. Now cats on the other paw – that’s a different story.)
 
Christmas is special to us because we got to be there when He was born. You didn’t think it was just donkeys and cattle in that stable, did you? No, we rodents were there too. Just think: if there had indeed been room for His parents in that inn in Bethlehem, we’d have never got to see Him! (Inn keepers generally discourage the presence of rats around their places of business … something about giving the customers a bad impression. Go figure!) But since He instead was born in that lowly manger, we got the benefit of being part of the first Christmas.
 
His parents didn’t have much to give Him – the swaddling clothes they wrapped Him in were the same materials my ancestors used as nestlet fodder – but they were full of love, and with all the body heat we generated, us animals made sure He stayed warm.
 
Even more special was when the wise men came to worship Him. We didn’t get much use out of the gifts of frankincense and myrrh they left, but Joseph used some of the gold to buy a bit of cheese! Goat’s-milk cheese, but it was still squeak-a-licious. And when the shepherds came with their sheep it was great for us rodents, because they also brought roughage to supplement the sheep’s grass diet, and we, er, helped ourselves to some of it. (Yum.)
 
But the best part of all was being there to witness the birth of the most rat-tastic person who would ever scamper over the earth – the One who would change so many lives, including mine. Yes indeed, that was the most squeak-tacious thing of all.
 
I hope you and yours have had a very merry Christmas indeed. In the midst of the hustle and bustle, though, take some time to remember the Christ of Christmas, and recognize that our God is a very pawsome God.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Santa Paws

 
’Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house
not a creature was stirring, except for a mouse.
The mouse was a-stirring, just checking to see
That all in the house were as snug as could be.
 
Her stirring awoke me from restful rat’s sleep,
So I crawled from my nestlet in darkness so deep,
Our hovel all quiet with stillness of night,
I rose to make sure everything was alright.
 
You might think it odd for a rat to give care
To a mouse ’round the house with chill in the air
So let me explain: it’s because she’s my wife;
She’s Bobette the mouse, and love of my life.
 
I heard her move ’round our hole in the wall
To make sure our kids were snug in a ball,
All crammed in a corner to keep themselves warm
Sheltered from cold of a winter’s snow storm.
 
Yes kids, I did say, for we have eight offspring
Four boys and four girls, but it’s quite a weird thing;
For you must know what happens when rats marry mice:
I’m sure you can guess it – we have baby rice!
 
I crawled to her side after having arose
Then nuzzled her muzzle with my little rat nose;
“Go on back to sleep,” I squeaked, “’til it’s day;
I’ll check to make sure everything is okay.”
 
So back to our burrow my wife she did creep
So silent she was, waking none from their sleep;
And I checked on our young, making sure they were snug,
As snug as a bug in a mug on the rug.
 
Satisfied with their safety, I too crept on back
For I was quite tired, wanting to hit the sack.
A little rat nap was what I did need,
For now I had done my fatherly deed.
 
But all of a sudden, I heard a strange noise
So I turned to make sure that it wasn’t my boys;
They like to get out, and much mischief make
And keep their rat father all up and awake.
 
My boys it was not; they were still in their ball
With four sisters there, eight rice all in all.
Realizing the date, I soon saw the cause
And knew in a flash it must be Santa Paws!
 
You humans, y’all have your tale of St. Nick,
But rodents, we’ve got a tail just as quick!
Santa Paws, he does come on the eve of Christmas
When all celebrate the birth of Jesus.
 
And presents he brings; we wish that he leaves
Some seeds, lots of fruits, and platters of cheese!
On Christmas in morn, with hope we awake
To see what’s been left … we hope not fruitcake.
 
Watching him there in the shadows I hid
For if he heard noise, he might think me a kid,
And all rodents know what Santa Paws does
If babes are around, he’ll stop – just because.
 
He wants us to know what presents we get
When Christmas dawn breaks; not before then, not yet.
But some kids can’t wait, some kids sneak around,
And sure enough mine were heard making sound.
 
I turned to the side and saw them all there;
Santa Paws saw them too, hiding by an old chair.
“Now, Harry! now, Larry! now, Barry and Jerry!
On Mary! on Kerry! on Sherry and Terry!
 
“I see you there staring with bright little eyes,
If you stay here you’ll ruin all of the surprise;
Away you should look, and turn your rice heads,
So off with you, now! Scoot back to your beds!”
 
I too snuck away, heading home to my nest,
To leave him alone; I thought it was best.
With Santa Paws’ views I also agreed,
For I too love surprises; they’re lovely indeed.
 
I nuzzled Bobette that cold eve in December,
But this night I just knew that I’d always remember.
And I heard him exclaim as he scuttled away,
“Ratty Christmas to all, and to all a good day!”
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Christmas Carols and Critters

 
Last night roughly thirty melodious people – and one pawsome rat – gathered in the Village of Rex, Georgia, to sing to our neighbors the songs of the Season. (Well, the humans sang … I squeaked.) Starting by the old mill and crossing infamous Big Cotton Indian Creek Bridge, we hiked up the hill to the homes of many a happily startled resident: startled because caroling has sadly become an increasingly rare occurrence in the United States, and happy because they saw that our spirited serenade was sung simply to bring them joy. Several of them were so delighted that they joined us in singing to their fellow neighbors as we visited more houses. We had more fun than you could shake a candy cane at!
 
It was also the first time I made a public appearance, decked out for the holiday in my bright red Santa Paws duds. (They match my eyes.) I have to admit: my whiskers twitched with nervousness (and with cold, as the night air added a certain nip to my little rat nose) as I visited the people, but it was squeak-tastic to finally meet many of my Blog and Muzzlebook fans, and I loved making new friends with those who hadn’t yet heard of me.
 
After bringing happiness to the hearts of many Rex residents, we scampered back to the Village to make merry with each other. Supping on spiced cider, coffee, cookies, and homemade cupcakes lovingly provided by historical Rex Mill owners Jerry and Gayle and members of the Historic Rex Village Association, each of us (present rodent company included) toasted each other a wonderful Christmas, and I was happy to find no shortage of cookie crumbs as I scuttled around the feet of all the cheery people.
 
Rex has a rich history (including ties to the White House) extending all the way back to the 1800s, and is full of legends and traditions. (I told you about some of the scarier ones in my Halloween blog, The Revenants of Rex.) This was our first gathering of Christmas carolers in the Village, but with all the fun we had we plan to make it an annual event that will last for many years to come. All of us were very happy to add our own tradition to the long history of this tiny town.
 
As we concluded our caroling at each house, we sang one last song to the smiling residents: “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” So in that tradition I will squeak the same to you:
 

I wish you a furry Christmas,
I wish you a squeaky Christmas,
I wish you a cheesy Christmas,
And a ratty new year!

 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

A Rat-Tastic Thanksgiving

 
Ah, the time of year has come upon us when we gather with family, give thanks for what we have, and guinea pig-out on turkey. (Oh, how glad I am that in American culture it is not customary to eat rat.) We come together and put our best faces on, grit our incisors when the mother-in-law makes snarky remarks, and pray that Uncle George doesn’t take the entire collection of Golf Magazine with him when he goes into the bathroom. Rats like me also hope that you put Fluffy the cat away, scuttle about covertly so as to not have our tails stepped on (ouch!), and wish that just one or two crumbs will fall onto the floor from the cheese platter Aunt Susan brought.
 
‘Tis also a time when there begins to appear a nip in the air, and I can feel my little rat nose freeze up. Given the status of the turkey, however, I’ll count my blessings! And I do have many blessings indeed. Let me share with you some of the things I am thankful for:
 
1. My human family, who loves me.
2. A toasty little hovel.
3. You, for being my friend.
4. That the people put Fluffy away.
5. The cheese platter Aunt Susan brought.
6. The fact that I’m not an edition of Golf Magazine right now.
7. My rat pals, Gus and Slim.
8. That Fluffy‘s away in the back.
9. They’re not having rat soufflé.
10. Fluffy’s not out and about.
11. My whiskers are squeaky-clean.
12. Fluffy’s where he can’t get me.
13. I can’t sniff Fluffy anywhere.
14. Fluffy’s not out on the prowl.
15. It’s the turkey they’re roasting, not me.
 
As Thanksgiving approaches, I hope you have a chance to gather with loved ones, eat ‘til you’re gut-busting full, and share with others in need. I also encourage you to make your own list of the things for which you are thankful; it’s best to put things in pawspective. And do please remember, as you chow down on bird, to thank God for the food on your plate; and please I implore you, despite what you’ve heard, keep the cat in the back – it’d be great!
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Ratical Changes

 

Midterm flealections were held this past Tuesday for the American people and rodents alike, and just as you humans saw a dramratic shift in the balance of power nationwide, we too experienced great change in our squirrelitical landscape.

In Wrongress, the Burrow of Ratresentatives saw the loss of many Democratic seats to the Fleapublicans, but flealection results in several key rattleground states did not result in a transfer of power in the Democratic Senate majority. Despite this, the new Squeaker of the House expressed optimism that legislation believed to be against the will of the American rodents will no longer be passed through.

Tensions between both parties have been running high since before the flealections of 2008. Even the representation of their rodent squirrelitical emblems brings about a clash of characteristics and ideologies that drives deep wedges between these groups. Democrats, symbolized by the blue woodchuck (also known as the groundhog), have chosen this rodent because of its independence, aggressiveness, and tenacity in defending both itself and the principles for which it stands. Additionally, because the woodchuck’s tail is small, Dems say “You can be sure we won’t tuck our tail between our legs in fear.” Fleapublicans counter this by exclaiming that the woodchuck’s two fur coats are a perfect repfleasentation of the Democrats’ nature: the outer coat is only a pretty façade for the dark layer underneath. They also cite the animal’s crooked spine as the true mindset of left-leaning Dems, and state that the woodchuck’s need to hibernate during the winter accurately reflects what this party does in reality: they sleep through what’s happening, fulfill only their own needs, and are oblivious to the will of the American rodents. Fleapublicans, on the other paw, represented by the red hamster, say this rodent’s ability to stuff food into its cheek pouches and carry it back to the burrow in order to stockpile and feed its family is symbolic of the party’s dedication to preservation, protection, and provision. They also pride themselves as being colorblind, just like the hamster, embracing and valuing all rodents. Dems counter this by claiming that the hamster’s nearsightedness is a clear representation that this party cannot make proper decisions for shaping the future (and it is well known what great prognosticators groundhogs are — just ask Punxsutawney Phil) and that the fragile bones of this tiny rodent indicate that Fleapublicans will break under change.

Woodchucks and hamsters alike battled each other on many key issues, from cat population control to cleaner sewers to urban development, with party members wanting to devote funds and efforts so that our rodent pups may aspire to be something greater than ’hood rats. Two of the biggest issues, however, centered around healthcare and the economy. Democrats, having successfully pushed a bill through Wrongress mandating that all rodents — who are seen by humans as carriers of sickness and disease — obtain their own health coverage, scuffled bitterly with Fleapublicans who claimed that because rodents are such ardent self-groomers and therefore don’t even need baths, this legislation is completely unnecessary as well as a violation of an individual’s ratty rights. In terms of our financial system, hamsters claim that the trillion cheese-crumb bailout designed to boost the economy hasn’t worked. These Fleapublicans squeak the fact that unemployment has reached into double digits, and that so many American rodents are forced to beg in the streets (scaring and grossing out humans) or scrounge around in the sewers for whatever scraps they can find, is proof that this Democrat-driven economy is the worst it’s been since the Great Cheesession. Fleabates along the campaign tail were fierce, with much chucking of insults by blue woodchucks and no shortage of counterattacks by red hamsters, and at times there were fears that fratricide might break out. (Thankfully, such extreme actions were never taken.)

In yet another development, the Flea Party faction has come into prominence on our squirrelitical scene. Largely consisting of rodents with conservrative or libratarian views, members of this gratsroots movement are angry with the increasing size of government and wasteful spending of American taxpayers’ cheese crumbs. They believe the ideals of left-pawers will lead us into a giant mouse trap, and feel that no one on Capivole Hill is listening to the will of the rodents. They ardently oppose the progratsive ideals of the Liberal Left, and have thrown their support to candidrats that uphold their views.

In the end, voters’ results showed that most rodents agreed. While not everyone subscribes to some Fleapublicans’ convictions that the leftist groundhogs are driving our country into the ground, it is apparent that the majority of our nation’s rodents feel that not all change — touted so fervently by the Democrats during the 2008 flealection — is good. This point in particular clearly supports the old adage that “The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.”

Keepin’ it squeak,

Bob

The Revenants of Rex

Ah, Halloween: that most haunted of holidays when we gather with one another to scare the fur off each other and bribe our little pups not to destroy our property by satiating them with sweets. We also come together to celebrate the arrival of autumn, carve jack-o-lanterns to ward off evil spirits, and host parties filled with frivolity and the wearing of costumes that draw out aspects of our personalities we would be ashamed to share any other time of year. (Thankfully I don’t need a costume on Halloween, and that’s good, because they don’t make many in my size.)

’Tis also a time for the sharing of ghost stories, the telling of tails (yes, I misspelled this on purpose) of the spirits who walk among us, wishing us harm or happiness, or having complete indifference. On the outskirts of my home in Ratlanta dwells a tiny town called Rex, whose history goes back more than a century-and-a-half. In Rex there stands an old one-lane bridge spanning a small creek, a dilapidated old grist mill, and several buildings in the heart of the town that are as old as the settlement itself. As the years have gone by a dam has been built just nigh of the bridge to tame the cascade of the creek, and a railroad track has been added about a stone’s throw from the old buildings. It is here that the Tail (also misspelled on purpose) of the Revenants of Rex begins.

My grandpaw lives close to Rex Mill, and loves to listen to the stories told of the town by the owner of the mill and his wife. In the spirit of the season, the mill’s owner recently imparted a tail (you guessed it, misspelled on purpose) so scary that it made Grandpaw’s whiskers stand on end. Apparently several revenants (which is another name for ghosts, phantasms, apparitions, and the like) haunt the little town of Rex; I present to you now three of their stories.

Although the dam is designed to reign in the rush of the creek, residents of past and present will tell you that during the torrential downpours that sometimes engulf Ratlanta the creek has been known to overflow it violently. Many years ago a mother and her child, caught up in one of these severe storms, were sadly drowned and are now said to haunt the bridge. On clear nights the residents claim that you can hear the child playing in the waters, while the mother gently calls his name to come home for supper.

In another tail (yep, misspelled on purpose), it is said that two suicide victims, having committed the acts that led to their demise within the town's borders, now roam the roads of Rex, and even, on occasion, appear in the yards of long-time residents. Ironic, it seems, that though their intent was to cut their lives short, they should ceaselessly walk the streets as the undead, forever trapped between this world and the next.

Finally there’s the tragic tail (misspelled on purpose, as you may have surmised) of a family killed while crossing the railroad tracks, who now traverse the trestles along the place of their passing. One can sometimes see their spirits slowly walking along the railway, only to vanish about a yard from the crossroads. On the anniversary of the accident it is said that a train whistle can be heard, even though no train approaches, as a phantom conductor warns future travelers to watch out for the train.

I hope I haven’t frightened your whiskers off – my grandpaw’s tails (have I misspelled it on purpose enough yet?) can be a little scary, even for creepy critters that crawl through the night like me. One thing is for sure, though: the things of which I am most afraid are the feral cats that live in the shadows of the mill!

Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Bob’s Jobs: Sewer Inspector

   
So far I’ve told you a lot about my leisure activities; now I’d like to tell you about my gainful employment. Not surprisingly, knowing my way around the underground, as you may imagine I inspect sewers. Quite a dirty way to make a living, but it brings home the bacon – er, make that cheese crumbs.
 
Working in the sewers is great because I get to see a lot of my friends, who make this grimy slice of heaven their home, every day I go to my job. However, you might be surprised to know that cockroaches are as prevalent as rats in the sewer. We rats have to scoop out our space in the sludge with the creepy critters, but we usually have the upper paw, because we’ll eat anything, including them.
 
The other day my team and I at Sludge-Be-Gone, the best sewer inspection company in Ratlanta, were on-site for a sewage backup under Fourth Street. Trudging through the poo and goo and things that make you go eew, my crew traced the problem to schmoo from the loo in a house on Highpoint View. Not shirking back from our dooties, we got straight to work, hauling in our ultimate sewage-cleaning tool: the Super Duper Pooper Scooper. We scraped and scrubbed and sucked that muck until the place was clean, and while some would have declared the site a biohazardous wasteland, we who were fearless, in the end (the rear end, that is), prevailed against the poo.
 
If you have a propensity for getting dirty and don’t mind crawling waist-deep in waste, we’ve got a job waiting for you at Sludge-Be-Gone. And to help you along I’ve written some words of encouragement. I present to you the Poo Poem:
  

Climbing through the grime and slime might not be that sublime,
Cleaning dumps from people’s rumps may not be worth your time,
But if you’re brave and not a knave then don’t go mow the lawn,
Your gloves put on and scrub the john until that poo is gone!
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Critter Camping

  
Ah, how the lovely fall season has come upon us. Here in Ratlanta the leaves have begun to trade their shades of summer green for the beautiful hues of red, orange, yellow, and a myriad of other colorful combinations. Many have started falling from the trees, providing a nice crunchy substance with which I might build my nestlet.
 
With this change of seasons also comes an annual tradition of my human family: camping in the backwoods of Georgia’s marvelous state parks. This year’s trip took them to the beautiful High Falls, and because I’ve been needing a bit of an escape from the hustle and bustle of the city, I decided to sneak in as a stowaway among their belongings.
 
Things were going great until our second night there when Big Burly Pop discovered me. The family had just returned from a long hike and was ravenous, and as he was preparing dinner he spotted me scampering among the firewood. All of a sudden he got this gleam in his eye, a gleam that said, “Yum.” Sharpening his knife – a knife so large it made Crocodile Dundee’s look like a clam shucker – he slowly licked his lips and uttered phrases that made my whiskers curl in on each other. “Rat kabobs, rat dumplings, smoked buffalo-style rat … mmmmm,” he murmured, casting furtive glances in my direction.
 
Just as the onions and potatoes were coming to a boil I made a run for it, but Big Burly Pop’s reflexes were too quick for mine. My red rat eyes boggled and I squeaked in terror as he dangled me precariously over the fire, but thankfully his daughters stepped out of the tent at the last minute, shouting, “Bob, NO!” At that same instant another movement caught the eye of my would-be rat roaster. “Shrew stew!” he exclaimed, letting go of my tail, which allowed me to quickly scurry away. Thus my little black rat hide was saved from what would otherwise have been a swift and sordid demise.
 
Our camping trip came to a close, and – other than the shrew – everyone had a great time. If you have plans to enjoy nature in its element during this wonderful autumn season, by all means, go for it. For the sake of rodents everywhere, however, take along some sandwiches or something! Boiled peanuts, marshmallows, anything … just not us!
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

The Rodent Weekly

   
As I understand it, most of you humans like to stay abreast of what’s happening in your world. Many of you read newspapers – which, by the way, make excellent nestlet fodder, so thanks. Well, we have our own way of putting the squeak-out on the latest current events, and the medium with the most widespread coverage is our own newspaper, The Rodent Weekly. Here are its latest headlines:
 

----------
 
News: Outrage ensues in disabled rodent community following cutting off of Three Blind Mice’s tails by farmer’s wife.
Violence erupted today outside the State Capivole building as angry protesters from the disabled rodent community demanded retribution from Mr. Farmer and his wife following the butchering of the tails of three visually challenged mice with her carving knife. Protestors say they will not rest until a full apology and financial restitution is awarded said mice.
 
Weather: Precipitation forecast shows no chance of raining cats and dogs; safe for rats to go outside.
 
Traffic: Nasty blockage in sewer under Fourth Street is causing 300-yard backup; take Meadow Vole Blvd. as alternate. Mike Rowe and Dirty Jobs Crew expect to have mess cleared by dinnertime.
 
Pawlitics: House of Ratresentatives proposes bill to require registration of all cat-dwelling homes; Flea Party Movement opposes measure citing desire to limit government regulation of rodent affairs.
 
Business: 700 billion cheese crumb bailout thus far unsuccessful in reversing economic downturn; rodent unemployment rates remain highest since The Great Cheesession.
 
Classifieds: Fry cook needed at China House; must be adept at making Cream of Sumyung Cat.
 
Sports: Clayton Capybaras take on Salisbury Squirrels Raturday night at Field Mouse Field. Overflow parking located in 4th Street sewer, as long as blockage has been cleared.
 
Health: Research uncovers high cholesterol levels in cheddar, ricotta, and provolone cheeses; docrats recommend only sparing consumption.
 
Science: Solar flares interfere with ratellites, causing communications difficulties; experts suggest using old-fashioned squeaks until sun activity subsides.
 
Food: Cheese-tasting party to be held at Mr. and Mrs. Smith’s chateau in the Highlands district – bring your appetites and make sure to stay out of sight.
 
Travel: Wisconsin and Switzerland this autumn’s premier travel destinations due to excellent availability of cheese.
 
Fashion: Beaver-skin coats considered faux pas this season.
 
Entertainment: Hamster Dance surpasses Gummy Bear Song as favorite in 4- to 9-year-old demographic.
 
TV Program Schedule: Rattatouille airs on Channel 180 Raturday night, 8:00 p.m. Encore presentation immediately following.
 
----------
 
I hope you’ve enjoyed this snapshot into the world of us rodents. By all means, however, do continue to read – and throw out – your own newspapers; they are indeed among the most comfortable materials for building our hovels.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Fat Rat, Flat Rat

 
At long last, after record-setting summer high temperatures and the longest stretch of September days reaching into the 90s or above that Ratlanta has seen in decades, autumn weather has finally come upon us. With the new season comes a crisp, cool touch to the air, as well as the reinvigoration of exercise gurus everywhere who had been forced to stay inside, lest they spontaneously combust (or, if they’re made of rubber like me, melt into a bubbling pool of goo) in the stifling Georgia heat.
 
It’s this sudden drop in temperatures to tolerable levels, combined with the Obamacare legislation that seems to be on everyone’s mind, that I turn to the idea of getting – and staying – in shape. My corpulent rat pal, Gus, to whom I introduced you last week, has one thing to squeak about this: “I am in shape! Round is a shape!” Somehow I don’t think Gus’s veterinarian approves of this point of view.
 
On the opposite end of the spectrum is another rodent friend of mine, Slim, who, if you were to look at him head on, would seem to vanish into thin air: all you’d see is this barely visible line with a few whiskers sticking out on either side of his face. I swear, Slim must literally be two-dimensional! Gus, on the other hand, encompasses dimensions that seem to grow exponentially with each passing day. Neither of them seems to be able to find a happy medium.
 
So with the turning of the seasons, I hope you are able to brush the dust off your whiskers, go outside, and have some fun. Try to find the balance that eludes my ratty comrades, and most of all, get out there and make a friend or two. Just try not to force your fitness-crazed friend onto the friend who thinks that jogging shoes make the perfect nestlet until you’ve known the both of them for a while; to do so would lead to a conflict in wills that’s more volatile than the propensity of an athlete to spontaneously combust in the middle of July!
 
Until next time, be happy and medium.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Rattus Flatus

 
It’s well known that members of my species are great scavengers … we’ll eat just about anything. And as it happens, a rodent friend of mine, Gus, has a particular talent for sniffing out the greatest ginuea pig-out spots in our native home of Ratlanta, Georgia. About a week back, Gus and I went out for a night on the town and came across one of his favorite scavenging sites, O’Flannigan’s Irish Pub, home of the best corned beef and cabbage this side of the British Isles. Darting between the legs of a few unwitting parishioners and dashing around the corner just in time to miss the watchful eye of the Assistant Manager, Gus and I scuttled out the back door of the kitchen over to the double-wide dumpster, eyes gleaming as we anticipated the feast that awaited us.
 
We rats eat anything, as I mentioned, but my pal Gus does have a refined palate for what even rats like me find a bit gross. Hang around him long enough, and you’ll see why we say he puts the “Gus” in disgusting. Case in point: while I was scrounging around for some mozzarella sticks and a bit of soda bread, Gus wasted no time tackling the remnants of an O’Flannigan’s House Special: colcannon complete with potatoes, ham crisps, and eight heads of cabbage, plus broccoli, eggs (hard-boiled, of course), and beans. And of course he topped the meal off with his favorite stinky cheese, Limburger, which I think smells like feet. Really nasty feet.
 
Our hunger satiated, Gus and I strolled away from the pub … a little wobbly, since we did accidentally fall into an open Guinness keg about halfway through our meal. (Gus was disappointed when I told him I didn’t think sipping on an Irish coffee would be a good way to sober up.) As we meandered toward Gus’s home in the sewer, I couldn’t help but notice these little farting noises emanating from my ratty friend’s rear end as his hind-paws waddled back and forth. I glanced behind me to see some noxious, green fumes slowly streaming out, withering plants and causing car tires to burst as they drifted past, and silently thanked my lucky whiskers that we were facing a head wind that night!
 
I dropped Gus off at his designated sewer hole and was on the way back to my own hovel when, just a few minutes into my rove, I heard a giant BOOM! I looked back to see a huge mushroom cloud streaming from Gus’s manhole, and Gus crawling slowly to the top, flopping onto his back, and letting his huge belly bulge out, a contented and drowsy grin spreading across his whiskers. That night humans heard on their evening news many reports on the localized earthquake or explosion or freak of weather that rattled the heart of the city, but I knew, and now you know, the real reason the streets of Ratlanta shook that night.
 
If you have a night on the town planned soon (and I hope you do), I hope your evening is rat-tastic and the food is squeak-a-licious. Take heed, however, that if you go with a friend like my buddy Gus, either bring along a gas mask for yourself or some Gas-X for your pal. Besides, everyone nose that to do otherwise would be hazardous to your health!
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

A Rat’s Remembrance

 
Today, September 11, 2010, marks the ninth anniversary of the horrible terrorist attacks perpetrated on American soil, the worst unnatural disaster in our nation’s history. And while I am normally a very jovial creature, there’s nothing funny about what happened to us nine years ago. What is amazing, however, is the strength, solidarity, and resolve with which we as Americans came together, and it is this that I’d like to remember.
 
So on this day I would like to pay tribute to those who lost their lives that fateful day, and I pray for the continuing strength, solidarity, and resolve of our nation. I would also like to thank the brave men, women, and rats (because you know there are rats on some ship or in some trench somewhere) who so bravely give their lives in service so that you and I may live in freedom. May God bless you all, and may God bless America.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Rat Race

 
Labor Day weekend has come upon us, and for those of us who dwell in the Peach State, that means Race Weekend at Hamsterton, Georgia’s Ratlanta Motor Speedway. I decided it would be ratical to visit the fastest track on NASCAR’s circuit, so, after a quick trim of my lustrous black fur, I scrounged myself a ticket into the GreatClips 300 Nationwide race, held Saturday evening. (After all, NASCAR does stand for the New Atlanta Society for Cool, Adorable Rats, doesn’t it?)
 
Seeing the race track in person – or in rat, rather – was a red-rat-eye-opening experience. After grabbing myself a snack of nachos (with a double side order of cheese, of course) from the concessions, I scuttled myself down to the grandstand and secured a nestlet just to the right of the Start/Finish Line. The sound of the cars zooming around the track was no less than deafening to my sensitive rat ears: I had to plug them with my whiskers. The smell of burning rubber wafting up into the stands as the drivers peeled off Pit Road was also troubling … that is until I realized that the rubber was from tires, and not from others of my rubber rat brethren. Whew!
 
I was also taken aback at the number of fans who arrived to the race track already drunk. On any given Sunday, I imagine that if you asked them what they were doing, they’d tell you, “Watchin’ beer and drankin’ NASCAR!!!” Thankfully none of them were driving … on the track, anyway. This was evidenced by the lack of caution flags waved during the race: we saw the yellow banner appear only a handful of times, with just a single one constituting a one-car wreck by Peachtree City, Georgia homeboy Reed Sorenson. (Apparently he forgot to eat his Ruddy Red Rat Pellets, the breakfast of champions, that morning. Next time I’m sure he’ll chow down!)
 
The festivities of the event, from gathering free stuff from the vendors outside, to watching GreatClips-sponsored racer Kasey Kahne qualify as the pole-sitter, to squealing in delight as fan favorite Jamie McMurray zoomed past the universally hated Kyle Busch to squeak into Victory Lane, were rat-tastic. And although none of us set any land-speed records while exiting in that monstrous end-of-race traffic, it’s safe to say that here in the heart of the South, on that weekend in which all of us Americans take a rest from our labor, I and the other fans of NASCAR did indeed win the rat race. So until next time, keep your teeth to the cheese wheel (or is it "keep your nose to the grindstone"?), and you, too, will be a winner.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Shoo Flea, Don’t Bother Me

 
In the recent advent of my case of those dastardly sand fleas, I got to thinking. (No small feat for a creature whose brain is smaller than a peanut. But I’m smarter than the average rat: I’ve even been to graduate school. More about that some other time.) It’s long been known amongst you humans that rats – or, more correctly, the fleas that make rats their home – were harborers of the Plague. You know the one: collectively over the years it’s been an amalgam (how’s that for a big word?!) of different diseases, known as the Black Death (not to be confused with my sleek and lustrous black fur), the Black Plague, and the Bubonic Plague. And although this scourge does indeed occasionally rear its ugly black head up now and then on certain parts of the globe, it’s thankfully now mostly considered a bad memory.
 
Well, my case of sand fleas from Margarataville is now gone; those critters didn’t hang around for long. (For whatever reason they find rubber fur unappealing.) So never fear: should our paths ever cross and you find it irresistible to kiss my cute, little rat nose (and a very handsome rat nose it is, if I do squeak so myself), I assuredly, thanks to my flea-repellent rubber fur, shall in no means pass the Plague or any other blight onto you. (How could I? I care for you too much, my faithful blog follower!) Until next week I bid you adieu, and hope that those fleas don’t come near you.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Rat Recovery

 
Ever notice how you always need a period of recovery when you get back from vacation? Well, this week I find myself in that boat. And while I know that rats are always the first to bail when a boat sinks, right now mine is floating just fine, so I think I’ll stay here a while longer. I’m still recovering from an unsqueakable case of sand fleas as well … like I said before, those little buggers are itchy. I’ll give you a better squeak next week. Until then, I’m going to indulge myself in a lovely rat nap, so please excuse me as I imagine the gentle ocean waves rocking me to sleep.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Margarataville

  
This week found me vacationing on the lovely shores of paradise, Panama City Beach, Florida. I spent a lot of time in the pool (being made of rubber, it’s helpful that I’m a great floater), and that was a squeaktacious way to escape from the stifling heat and humidity currently gripping the southeastern United States. I had plans to work on my tan, but thought that with my dark black rat fur I’d end up extra-crispy, which is a bad idea, particularly around some of the Asian take-out restaurants. I also got to spend some time in the ocean, and though I had some trouble getting out to the surf due to sinking into the soft sands and having many a battle with the indigenous sand fleas (itchy little buggers), nothing could deter me from spending some blissful days in the crystal-clear waters of the Gulf of Mexico.
 
While out there I also hooked up with some of the locals to scope out PC Beach’s night life. It’s a little-known fact amongst you humans that beneath your city streets lay sewers just teeming with excitement for us members of the order Rodentia. My favorite place to sniff around is a little hole-in-the-wall called Margarataville. Aside from a wide variety of drinks including Rum and Sewage, the Long Island Iced Flea, and Shrewdriver, they also serve an assortment of cheeses, such as provolone, Monterey jack, mozzarella, cheddar, and – my favorite – Muenster. My comrats also did some flirting with the lovely ladies of the mouse variety, but not me: I’m married. (I’ll tell you more about my family life in a later blog.) My ’hood rats were trying to impress the sweeties with their rat-tastic dance moves, and a few of the more handsome ones (those with great-looking rat noses, like me) did succeed in whiskering up a second date.
 
Toward the end of my last night under the town, though, we scuttled into a bit of a problem. While we were on the dance floor shaking our tails to the beat with the girls, it seems that someone made off with our cheese. We returned to our nestlet only to find those heavenly slices missing, though our drinks were left behind. Some of my pals think the male mice, jealous of us flirting with their dames, were behind the thievery. (Hey, once you go rat, you know that’s where it’s at!) But I suspect it was really those dastardly sand fleas. Every rat knows they’re bad news – always jumping around the beach like pests (not that I, as a rat, would know anything about being a pest) – and like I squeaked before, I’d already had problems with them. It also makes sense that they’d take the cheese but leave the drinks behind: they’ve got plenty of water from the sea. So as I was drowning my sorrows in a glass of havartirita I decided to wax lyrical, and here’s what I came up with:
 
Wastin’ away again in Margarataville.
Searchin’ for my lost slices of cheese …
Some ’hood rats claim that there’s a mouse to blame,
But I know it was really those fleas.
 
(Four paws up to Mr. Jimmy Buffett for my scratching of this parody on his hit song “Margaritaville.”)
 
If you too have vacationed in your own little slice of paradise this year, I hope your trip was rat-tastic. And if you’ve yet to leave but have plans to go to the beach, I’d advise you to keep on the squeak-out for those cheese-stealing, bandit sand fleas.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Guard Rat, Hiding Rat

 
Once settled into our new burrow, Unsuspecting Victim and I had opportunity to learn more about each other. She learned that I’m afraid of Animal Planet (especially that Cats 101 show), and I found out that she’s afraid of things that go bump in the night. (Not rats like me, but bad guys. After all, we were living on our own now.) Being the noble creature that I am, and because of my fondness for my new Alpha, I took it upon myself to protect her. Thus I took up my post on the dresser drawer next to her bedroom door, under the notion that anyone or anything that got into her apartment and as far back as the bedroom would see me staring them down with my beady-red eyes, freak out, and run away. I was her guard rat, and just as a piece of Brie or Gruyere does for me, my presence gave her a sense of comfort and security.
 
That is not to say, though, that I lost my sense of humor – I still love to hide. Over time, and with the help of Unsuspecting Victim’s twin sister, Sneaky, I found myself in a lot of places in our burrow: in the bed sheets (of course, my favorite … somehow I always seemed to find myself there); in a closet; between the seat cushions of the couch; behind the arm chair; defending the peas and carrots in her pantry; under the sink. (That time in the tub, though, was pretty interesting, as I was tempted to sneak down the drain and go visit my cousins in the sewer.)
 
Then one day I had an idea for the best hiding place of all: her refrigerator. (Mmm … just think of all the possibilities with such quick and ready access to my favorite delectable food.) Well, it turns out that this was a bad idea: I stayed in there undetected for three weeks. Three weeks – who’da thunk?! I mean, have you seen this girl eat? She has the metabolism of, well, a rat!!! (Thank my whiskers I didn’t choose to hide in the freezer!) Turns out she was just out of the burrow staying really busy at work and with her active social life (imagine … she didn’t bring me along to see her friends!) and had therefore eaten her meals elsewhere. She was pretty unhappy, though, without her guard rat, and I myself wasn’t happy being a rat-sicle.
 
So Sneaky and I decided it would be best to end my hiding days. When there was company at the burrow I would enjoy gracing them with my presence (the startle effect never ceased to make me smile) and at night I resumed my post as guard rat. She was comforted knowing I was there, and I was comforted by the fact that my rat nose was no longer frostbitten.
 
So I caution you again, as I did last week: be careful about what’s around the corner, because you never know what might squeak out. And also remember that not only do rats make great pets, we are fearless defenders of our territory and pack as well.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob