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
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