Paws and Rewind

 
2011 has come to an end, and what a rat-tastic year it’s been! My wife, Bobette, is currently raiding the fridge of our human family’s kitchen for some cheese cube hors d’oeuvres for our New Year’s Eve celebration, and the pups are looking forward to staying up past their bedtime and throwing scraps of nestlet fodder into the air at midnight (it’s the rodent version of confetti). So while they’re in the other section of the burrow scampering about, I thought I’d take a moment to nestle down and reflect on all of this year’s happenings.
 
Current events were certainly not a disappointment, with several stories making news headlines. We saw joyous events, like Britain’s royal wedding, as well as intimidating ones, like further dips in our economy. We had occasions to laugh and ones to feel solemn, and days filled with commotion as well as with rest. In fact, from sporting events to TV entertainment and everything in between, I had trouble keeping up with it all!
 
All of us in the Rat hovel managed to stay healthy this year despite a few tussles with the flu and some fleas, and even craziness with the weather didn’t dampen our spirits. Spring brought celebrations like St. Ratrick’s Day and Easter (I'm still enjoying those blue cheese eggs), as well as opportunity to get a little spring cleaning done. Summer saw several vacations (soaking up the sun’s rays on Florida's sugar-white sands helped me shake the water from my whiskers after rafting on a river), the celebration of our nation’s independence, unfortunately emergence of a mosquito or two, and the one-year anniversary of the launching of Bob’s Blogs. (Remember, you can also sniff me out on Muzzlebook, scratch me by flea-mail, and listen to my squeaks on Twitter!) A return to the cooler months had the pups begrudgingly back in school, but I think they might have been sneaking some comic books in with their class work underneath Bobette’s muzzle. And of course the winter brought with it the craziness of the pawlidays, but also the gathering of family and celebration of the reason for the season.
 
The new year brings with it new resolutions (perhaps I’ll stop procratstinating getting my pratstate checked at the vet), so I encourage you to be persistent in pursuing your goals, remember to take time for family, be brave in spite of what may come your way, and in all things give thanks. My beady red rat eyes look forward to seeing you in 2012, so until then keep it squeak!
 
Keepin’ it squeak myself,
Bob

Christmouse

 
Merry Christmouse, everyone!
 
Ah yes, that most joyous of days has arrived, the one around which the entire kid year revolves … and to which we adults look forward with no less anticipation. No more cheesy holiday song spin-off TV and radio commercials (the malls can wait another year to be decked), and yes more fun, family, and food! Thankfully the Grinch didn’t visit our hovel this year, so we had plenty of crumbs that, though individually were too small for a mouse, added up to be a squeak-a-licious feast indeed.
 
This year I again went caroling with the Historic Rex Village Association (we had a rat-tastic time, just like last year), although this time I stayed out of sight. (For whatever reason some people are scared of rats. Go figure! But I felt it best not to frighten the carolers – or carolees – away.) I tried to get the human in whose pocket I was hiding to convince the others to sing a few rounds of “O Christmas Cheese” and “Santa Paws Is Coming to Town,” but there were no takers. I also pulled a bit of a prank on my family before Santa came: this year they got a few lumps of coal in their nestlets. (A few days ago I told them that Santa was making a list, checking it twice, and was gonna find out who was naughty or mice.) I think they figured out the joke, though, when they discovered that it was the instant-light briquette kind. (Still had a good squeak about it, though!)
 
Today being Sunday, my family and I also thought it important to attend service at our church and celebrate with others the true meaning of the season. The pups put on a wonderful play depicting the Christmas story spoken of in Luke 2:1-14 – with a bit of a rodent twist, of course. For one thing, we had wise mice instead of wise men, and the shepherds were herding flocks of hamsters rather than sheep. (At shearing time they harvest fleas instead of fleece, with great stocks of Flea-Be-Gone – and anti-itch cream in case those little buggers make a squeak for it.) We all scattered, though, when a couple of cats strolled in to leave presents of gold, frankincense, and purr!
 
Yes indeed I’ve had a very merry Christmouse, and hope you have as well. So in the words of my favorite Christmousetime carol,
 

I wish you a squeaky Christmouse,
I wish you a no-flea Christmouse,
I wish you a cheesy Christmouse,
And a ratty new year!

 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Not Even a Mouse

 

’Twas the night before Christmas,
when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring,
not even a mouse.

 
Well, if no one is stirring, I suppose that’s bad for this Christmas feast’s cheese fondue pot: the cheese may very well clump together. Better crank up the heat on that bad boy and wake someone up to get it going again!
 
With Christmas just one week away, I hope you’re making your final preparations for a festive holiday time. Hopefully you’re wrapping up your shopping (literally!) and, if necessary, making mad dashes to the mall to pick up those last-minute stocking stuffers. Careful, though: those places can sometimes be so crowded that you’ll feel like you’re being herded along like rattle – er, cattle, and locating your car in the crowded parking lot may make it seem like you’re a mouse in a maze trying to find the cheese at the end. (If you find it, would you please share some with yours truly?)
 
Christmastime can certainly feel crazy, what with the afore-mentioned shopping, millions of activities to get to, and visiting those relatives who make family dynamics seem more like family dynamite. Then there are the commercial Christmas song parodies that are more annoying than a bad case of fleas (really, how many more times do we have to suffer through “Deck the Malls”?), but even in this, I strive to remain a contented rat. (At least with the last one I can stuff some fodder from my nestlet into my ears.) I’m sure I don’t have to remind you of those who are lonely this year; maybe they’ve lost a loved one, maybe they’re themselves forgotten. (Maybe they never came home.) Let’s be thankful, too, that we have ears to hear those annoying commercials, and that there’s flea medicine to stop that scratching! (What? I figured you had enough of a lecture on priorities!) This Christmas, let’s draw together in love so that not even a mouse feels left out. And whatever you do, be sure to keep stirring the cheese in that fondue pot – I’m hungry!
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

It’s the Pawliday Season

 
In case you haven’t noticed recently, what with the overcrowded malls, decorating of evergreens, and reports of bloodshed as people mob stores in search of that perfect Christmas gift, the pawliday season has indeed arrived. And I imagine that most of you have been dashing through the snow in a one-horse open sleigh (well, maybe not: it’s not the most efficient means of travel) as you rush to all the activities, concerts, and parties this time of year brings.
 
We in the Rat hovel have likewise been very busily scampering around, stringing nestlet fodder in festive fashions and making sure the cheese balls we’ll bring to our ratty friends’ get-togethers are as squeak-a-licious as can be. My wife, Bobette, and I are looking forward to a brief getaway at a cottage in the mountains (or, if we can’t manage that, at least go to a cottage cheese mountain), and our octuplets, Harry, Larry, Barry, Jerry, Mary, Sherry, Kerry, and Terry are beside themselves with excitement waiting for Santa Paws to make his annual visit. (This year they’re all hoping he’ll leave cheese nips in their droppings – er, stockings.)
 
We’re also looking forward to making the rounds visiting our comrats: my corpulent pal Gus, who puts the “Gus” in “disgusting” with the gross grub that comprises his diet, is sure to have a block of limburger waiting for us when we stop by his sewer, while his antithesis, Slim, will likely be serving part-skim mozzarella. But as much as I value what’s on my plate, I enjoy spending time with my ratty companions even more.
 
Likewise, I hope your pawliday festivities will be filled with family, friends, fun, and food, and that you won’t be left in a ratatonic state after consumption of the latter. So while the merry bells keep squeaking, Happy Pawlidays to you!
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Gratitude

 
Rat-tastic greetings to you on this most squeaktacular of American holidays, Thanksgiving Day, in which we paws for a moment, feast on fowl flesh, and express gratitude for who and what we hold dear.
 
Thanksgiving is a special time when many of us enumerate the things for which we are appreciative, and while, as my list from last year points out, I’m still very grateful that I’m not the turkey and Fluffy the Cat has not been invited to the feast, I’d like to add to it. So I present to you now Bob the Rat’s 2011 Top 10 Things for Which I Am Thankful:
 
1. That I am the original author of “keep it squeak.”
2. That, despite this, I remain a humble rat.
3. Cheese.
4. My human and rodent families.
5. You!
6. Cheese.
7. This hovel in cyberspace where I scratch out my thoughts.
8. Our connectedness thanks to the World Wide Web (even though I’m not fond of spiders).
9. Cheese.
10. Melty mozzarella, succulent Swiss … oh, the glory of cheese.
 
Wherever you find yourself this Thanksgiving Day, I hope you’re surrounded by the love of family and friends and have copious access to both turkey and cheese. No matter what, though, be sure to have an attitude of gratitude, and always remember to keep it squeak!
 
Keepin’ it squeak likewise,
Bob

The Paws of Time

 
Today marks the end of Daylight Saving Time here in the U.S., and in this morning’s small hours all of us set our clocks back 60 minutes. I always feel a little bleu around this time of year, not because I’m sad, but because with the pawliday season coming up I know that there will be plenty of parties, and lots of you humans bring cheese platters. (So the spelling of “bleu” above, of course, indicates one of my favorite types of moldy cheese.)
 
It’s also a time, however, when, for one brief moment, we get to do things all over again. For most people this hour is spent sleeping – and I’m rat-tastically all in for sleep! Others spend it awake catching up on work or whatever else might be on their plate (mmm … I hope it’s some of that bleu cheese I just squeaked about), but I look at it a bit more philosophically, as a time in which we can paws and rewind and perhaps do a bit of introspection. Rather than wait until Thanksgiving, in which we paws to give thanks, and the New Year, wherein we make resolutions, the switch to Standard Time for me is a reminder to look back and make sure I’m scuttling along the path of life that I should go, and that my ratty actions reflect such: things should be that I wouldn’t harm a fly. (Harming a flea, however, is a different matter; itchy little buggers.)
 
So as we wind back our clocks I encourage you to do the same with your life, because soon enough we’ll be springing forward into DST again, and time will pass us by.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Scaredy Rat

 
Aaah! It’s Halloween, the most squeaktacular – let’s make that spooktacular – day of the year. Tonight all the kiddies will come a-knockin’ at your door, entreating you for sweets, and hopefully not leaving you any of those “tricks” they jestingly threaten. (A squeak to the wise, just in case: I’ve heard from some human children that the best treats to get are bubble gum and chocolate while the worst are those nasty brown taffy things in the black and orange wrappers, so if you don’t want a flaming paper bag of rat droppings left on your front porch, spring for the Bubble Yum.)
 
Everyone also dresses in the most fanciful costumes, some whimsical, like princess fairies; some heroic, like Captain America; and some terrifying, like flesh-eating zombies. I’m sure you can guess my favorite costume: Ratman. And the worst, the one that makes my fur stand on end: cats. It seems like every year at least three or four little girls dress up in what they assume are the cutest kitty-cat costumes ever and come trick-or-treating at my human family’s house, sending me scampering for cover. And wishing my whiskers off that the next trick-or-treater will be Ratman.
 
So as you and yours go running through the neighborhood tonight collecting candy and making mischief, do a favor to all of the rats who reside in human homes: don’t wear that cat costume!
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Flea-Mail

 
For whatever reason, pawtumn – er, autumn – seems to be a busy time for everyone. That’s certainly been the case for me recently: there's been so much on my plate (none of it cheese, unfortunately) that I’ve not even had the chance to scratch out a blog for the past three weeks! And in my absence, cyberspace has no doubt been adrift without my ratty insight to provide guidance.
 
It’s been squeaktacular to finally scamper my way back to the World Wide Web (even though I’m not a spider), but there is one nuisance responsibility which has unfortunately tagged along: my flea-mail account is full. The inbox has so much spam in it that I’m going to have to invite my corpulent rat pal Gus over to help me scarf it down, and as to clawing through the more pressing messages I pawsitively have to get to, well I hope nobody needs an immediate answer! (Besides, it'll take a little while for the flea medicine to kick in.)
 
Clearly I need a strategy to deal with it. Lucky for me, just this morning I overheard a human talking about this very subject from a priority-management seminar she recently attended. The instructor encouraged participants to use the acronym RAT when dealing with their email messages: Route, Act, Trash. This may be all well and good for her, but as to my needs, I think RAT should be interpreted differently: Regard, Avoid, Treat. Regard the fact that I have a message waiting for me, Avoid reading it, and, after clicking “delete,” Treat myself to a nice piece of cheese for all my hard work. Yes, I think that between Gus and me both, we’ll have my flea-mail account emptied – and the kitchen, too – in no time.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Let’s Roll

 
Today, September 11, 2011, marks the ten-year anniversary of the worst terrorist attacks perpetrated on American soil in our nation’s history. A solemn day and a day of remembrance, but above all, a day of determination and strength. The strength of the American people, and I’m proud to be an American rat.
 
Today is a day to remember the fallen, to recognize the first responders, to respect those whose loved ones were lost or whose bodies were mangled thanks to a cowardly terrible act, and today is also a day to acknowledge that each American, no matter what our geographic location, was personally and directly affected by what took place ten years ago this morning. Today is a day to remember that it is indeed about the people in New York and Washington, and it is also about us. Us as individuals and as a nation; us as unwavering.
  

Out of the ashes that blanketed the New York City skyline and out of the destructive fires of the Pentagon has risen a new people, tough and tenacious. From that day, each of us has marked the events of our lives as “before 9/11” vs. “after 9/11,” and though in many historically defining moments it’s appropriate to say that a “new generation” was formed after such and such had taken place, the truth is that all of us, regardless of age, became a new generation that day. And it is good.
 
With the fire of our American forebears passed down to us through the centuries and with the bonds formed by now our own defining marks, we stand hand-in-hand and paw-in-paw and say or squeak with resolve – to ourselves and to the world – that we will not back down and we will never give up. So in the words of United Airlines Flight 93 passenger Todd Beamer, who led others in a rush to thwart the plans of terrorists bound for D.C. on that fateful September day, we declare as one nation with one accord, “Let’s roll.”
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Ratlaxation

 
Ah, Labor Day: a time when all of us rest from our work, maybe take in a barbeque or two, and celebrate the unofficial end of summer with a party by the pool. My employees and I at Sludge-Be-Gone, the best sewer-sucking company in Ratlanta, are too taking a restful day off today … which seems quite appropriate, as Tropical Storm Lee is dumping no small amount of rain on the city and flushing out our business. (Thankfully a recent dry spell saw a pickup in activity, and I was able to transfer my second job as line cook at a local Chinese restaurant to full-time dumpster cleaning in a new branch of Sludge-Be-Gone services. So from now on even when rain showers wash the sewers out for us, we’ll still be living high on the hog – no matter how flea-infested it may be!)
 
This Labor Day has been a family day for me, and earlier today my wife, Bobette, and I took our pups on a picnic outing to a local park. The little ones had a great time scampering about and playing “Who stole the cheese?” while Bobette and I contented ourselves with holding each other’s paws in a brief respite from our parental duties. (We were also thankful that the human family grilling hot dogs beside us wasn’t interested in adding rat meat to their menu.) Then about mid-day TS Lee decided to make his presence known in earnest, so hey – instant pool party! (It was a great pawportunity for me to practice my ratty paddle!)
 
We’re back all dry and toasty in our hovel now, having contented ourselves with all three Labor Day traditions – including the uber-important post-picnic rat nap (had to get that “rest” part in somewhere). And with Lee expected to dump more rain on Ratlanta over the next few days, I might very well decide to extend my holiday just a little bit longer, and continue that rat nap some more.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Cheese Whiz

 
Much to the chagrin of children nationwide, the time has come for them to go back to school. Alas, they must bid “pawdios” to summer vacations and parties by the poolside, and turn instead to cafeteria lunches and homework assignments. And while your pups are gearing up for a return to the hallowed halls of education, ratlings everywhere are doing the same.
 
Contrary to popular human belief, it’s not only fish that have dealings with school. There’s a reason rats are adaptable to almost every environment, and it isn’t just because we often travel to them by stowing away in cargo ships (though that does play a significant part). We educate our pups from a young age on many subjects, including how to sharpen one’s incisors, honing the sense of smell (we generally have poor eyesight), and, the most important, nutrition. While we do focus somewhat on maintaining a healthy diet (which leads some rats to engage in damaging farmers’ crops), we emphasize more heavily the finer arts of dumpster diving and cheese connoisseurship. Indeed, it can be squeaked that the rat whose muzzle is more acutely attuned to the finding and obtaining of superior-quality cheeses has a greater propensity to claw higher up the food chain than those whose dairy discernment is more limited.
 
So as kids and rat pups alike return to the institutions of learning that so greatly dominate their time in childhood (and undoubtedly groan in protest at having to go back), let’s encourage them to get scratching on that homework and learn all that their little noggins will absorb … everyone knows that those called “cheese whizzes” by the school bullies of today will be called “boss” and “yes, sir” tomorrow!
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Castaway Critter

 
This past week saw me sniffing along the lovely shores of paradise, Panama City Beach, Florida, in a return trip to my favorite vacation hot spot. Last year I squeaked all about PCB’s nightlife in my blog Margarataville, but rather than hitting the club scene this time, I ended up – accidentally – getting shipwrecked.
 
The sugar-sand shores of the southeastern United States are, in this humble rat’s opinion, the most beautiful in the world, but they do have one problem: sand fleas. In an attempt to escape these infernally itchy insects who like to fix themselves in my fur and feast on my flesh, I decided to scuttle aboard the M.S. Muenster, the beach’s tastiest dinner cruise ship, as a stowaway. (By far, they host the best cheese-tasting parties on the gulf; hence my attraction.) Things were going swimmingly when, during the second course (just as the Gorgonzola and Asiago were making an appearance), our seafaring steed ran aground on a sandbar adjacent to Shell Island, an undeveloped islet just off the coast. The captain was able to keep the passengers calm for a while, but pandemonium ensued when they discovered that, because it was a natural habitat, the island had no Port-a-Potties and the M.S. Muenster likewise didn’t have enough life boats to get everyone back to dry dock. (I thought they’d have scratched a page from history with the terrible events of the Titanic’s sinking, but I guess they were more concerned with the menu than matters of survival. Not the captain’s wisest choice.)
 
Furtunately for me, however, scampering to shore wasn’t a problem. It just so happens that Shell Island is home to one of the world’s largest populations of bottle-nosed dolphins, and with their superior echolocation abilities, they had no trouble finding my S.O.S. squeaks of distress. (I didn’t even have to break out my ratty-paddle!) From there it was a simple hop, skip, and scurry to dry land, and an even quicker splash into the pool of a local motel – had to wash those sand fleas off.
 
So as the captain and crew of the M.S. Muenster continue to take heat from the marooned passengers for their unsqueakably pawful planning, I wish everyone the best and hope they make it to the mainland before they have to go potty. And once they’re back I’d advise them to invest in a jumbo-sized fleaswatter: they’re just as great for disciplining neglectful captains as they are for squashing those flesh-feasting sand fleas!
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

River Rat

 
You might imagine that, being a rat, I know my way around the sewers pretty well. And you’d be right, especially seeing that I own the best sewer inspection company in all of Ratlanta. It’s common knowledge among the residents of the American Southeast that bodies of water like Lake Lanier and the Chattahoochee River (or the ’Hooch, as it’s called – as much for a convenient shortening to a nickname as it is for the beverage some people imbibe while fording it) flow into the waters that form the municipal water – and sewer – systems of the city.
 
It’s therefore also common knowledge that if you want to spend any time on the Chattahoochee and not be covered in crap, you’d better do it upstream. (This often slips the inebriated minds of those who’ve imbibed a bit too much of the above-mentioned beverage – to their detriment. Yuck.) Anxious to get an escape from the excrement myself for a while, this weekend I decided to take a trip up north to the Appalachian Trail and do some whitewater rafting on North Carolina’s Nantahala River. The river stays quite busy with weekend warriors scoping out slippery trips all through the summer, its 50°F waters providing a welcome relief from the sizzling heat of the season. (And I’ll admit, even with my thick black rat fur, 50 degrees is a bit chilly … but oh, so refreshing on a hot summer’s day.)
 
Though the waters aren’t very accommodating to tubers (who essentially ride the river in oversized rubber inner-tubes), kayakers, rafters, and duckies (one-person inflatable kayaks) are found all over the rapids. (The duckies are my favorite because they quack back when I squeak at them.)
 
I decided to hitch a ride on one of the rafts for the eight-mile stretch of open river, sneaking my way around the water-soaked feet of the rafters and lodging myself between the safety rope and first aid kit in the back, underneath where the raft guide sat. I’d have liked to gone down in a quacking ducky, but that would have run me the risk of discovery by the single attentive paddler. As it was, I had a few close calls with the raft guide when we all bounced around on some of the more ratical rapids.
 
The most aggressive one, Nantahala Falls, lies just nigh of the raft put-in port, and the squeaktacious Falls surely didn’t disappoint on this trip. Our guide took the rapid at very high speed and a bit of an off angle, and the result was what is known in raft lingo as a “dump truck”: every member in the raft – including yours truly – got dumped into the water. It seems pawsitively appropriate that “dump truck” should finish me off, as it provided a poignant reminder that it was time for me to return home to my work in the sewers and deal with “dumps” of a different kind. So I’m back in Ratlanta now … which is more than I can say for my rafting companions, because not having the buoyancy that being made of rubber affords me, all of them ended up – you guessed it – drowned rats.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Mouse v. Food

 
One of the most popular shows on the Travel Channel right now is “Man v. Food,” in which host Adam Richman travels to a city, explores its local landmarks and samples some of the best eats it has to offer, and culminates in a restaurant’s food challenge in which he must either conquer the gargantuan gastronomic feat before him (most challenges involve either very spicy or very large quantities of food) or else be shamed forever on national television as just another casualty to whatever monstrosity some malevolent chef cooks up.
 
Well we in the rodent world have a bit of a variation on this, “Mouse v. Food,” in which our own slop-eating superhero, Adam Richmouse, visits the dumpsters of various cities’ dining establishments and sees how much garbage he can gobble in a single sitting. And while some of what he eats isn’t of the best quality (it is in the dumpster, after all), our meaty murine can vanquish vast quantities of the vittles he encounters.
 
I’d be really interested to see your Adam and our Adam go nose to nose – er, make that nose to muzzle – in a chow-chomping battle. Finding a restaurant that could accommodate such an event wouldn’t be hard to do, as it’s logical to assume that the places offering these challenges have a lot of trash to throw away as person after person falls victim to the unrelenting food foe before them. And as it pertains to recovering from a spicy food challenge, I think our mouse has quite a significant edge over your man as consuming large quantities of cheese will soothe his tongue-torched taste buds a great deal quicker than a glass of milk will for your guy, as we rodents are accustomed at downing dairy to a greater extent than you humans are.
 
But whether our challengers face off against each other or not, I have great appreciation for those individuals, man and mouse alike, who put their bodies in harm’s way for our rodentertainment. So thanks, Adams both, for your squeaktacular sacrifice, and do be sure to sniff out “Mouse v. Food” on travelchannel.com/stupid.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Who Let the Blogs Out?

 

Who let the blogs out? (Squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak!)
Who let the blogs out? (Squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak!)

 
Today marks the one-year anniversary of the launching of Bob’s Blogs: The Many Adventures of Bob the Rat, and I must squeak, what a rat-tastic year it’s been! In just 365 short days I’ve gone from a rat who barely knew how to type (and in truth, my paws still have a bit of difficulty reaching the keys) to managing my own blog, creating a flea-mail account, establishing my own Muzzlebook and Twitter pages (the latter of which should not to be confused with “twitterpated” – just ask the owl in Disney's hit movie “Bambi”), and even launching my own website, bobtherat.com. (I will let you know, however, that it’s a major work in progress; overcoming the learning curve on website design is a great deal more difficult than Blogspot’s pre-formed, rat-user-friendly templates. So if you sniff over there right now, don’t expect to be impressed – yet. I’m pawsitive that I’ll get better at it in time.)
 
Throughout this time it’s been a squeaktacular journey as I’ve visited the world of you humans and likewise brought you into mine. And though I prefer to save reflections of the year’s happenings until New Year’s Eve (as I did last year), I will take a moment to squeak how fun it’s been sniffing out your goings-on (like the hoopla of the Squeaker Bowl and Royal Wedding) as well as sharing with you aspects of my ratty life, such as my family, friends, and work.
 
Bringing you along on my many adventures over this past year has truly been a ratical experience, and if there are any blog critics out there, I hope they’re giving these little scratchings of mine a rating of “four paws up!” The best thing of all is that my blog has gained more of a pawdience than just my mother :o), and for that I have each of you to thank. And I do thank you, immensely; you make all of this pawssible. So I guess in the end when I ask myself who let the blogs out, the answer, I must undoubtedly squeak, is you!
 
With squeaktacious gratitude,
Bob

Another Year Voleder

 
I’ve mentioned my human family in several past blogs (see specifically October 2010’s Critter Camping and December of the same year’s The Christ of Christmas), which consists of Dad (who once tried to cook me over a campfire), Mom (who is a very sweet lady), and their daughters, twin girls. Well, today is the twins’ birthday, and incidentally a milestone at that. And while the elder twin is perfectly happy with it (“Yay – another birthday!” she squeals), the other one has threatened to melt me down into a pool of rubber goo if I squeak you how old they are.
 
Each year they have a tradition of celebrating their birthday dinner at their favorite restaurant, Chili’s, and they always order the same dish: steak-and-chicken fajitas for two. (I’m glad that’s not rat meat they’re consuming. And since I’ve decided to keep my muzzle shut about their age, it won’t be my whiskers on the chopping block – for tonight, at least.) It’s typically over dinner that they celebrate the times of their birth: 8:42 p.m. for the elder, three minutes later for the younger. And although I’m not sure if they got the “extended life” gene my wife Bobette and I did back in our days in the lab, they’re certainly still kickin’ it … or, er, pawin’ it, as we rodents like to squeak.
 
I gave a lot of thought as to what presents I’d like to get them for the occasion. But then I remembered the “presents” I left in the packing box of the elder twin when she moved into her first apartment, and recalled – quite pawfully – that she wasn’t too thrilled about them. (What can I squeak? When a rat’s gotta go, a rat’s gotta go!) So in the end I decided the best gifts to each would be a snuffly rat kiss and a nuzzle of their muzzles with my little rat nose. And as an added bonus, I also helped them dispatch their favorite birthday dessert, white chocolate raspberry truffle cheesecake. (What a thoughtful rodent I am.)
 
The twins and I have developed a special bond over the years, and I have taken them into my family, just as they have welcomed me into theirs. I’ve comforted them, protected them, and even been to graduate school with one of them (more about that in a later blog). So while the younger twin grapples with the passing of one decade and entrance into another, I’ll send her a reminder in the words of famous actress Billie Burke: “Age is something that doesn’t matter, unless you are cheese.”
 
Happy birthday my dear twins, Sabrina and Sandra, from your loving little rat,
Bob

Rat, White, and Blue

 
Ah, the Fourth of July. A time to enjoy patriotic pawrades, light up the night with fireworks and other pawrotechnics displays, and take a day off of work to relax. Here where I live in Ratlanta, Georgia it’s also time for the running of the annual Peachflea Road Race, the largest 10-kilometer race in the world. (And it’s sad to say that in Ratlanta’s typical unsqueakable traffic, you can actually reach your destination faster scuttling the Peachflea than you will driving a car on a normal business day.)
 
It’s also a time, however, to pay tribute to our wonderful nation’s heritage. From well before the actions of angry rats at the Boston Flea Party in 1773 all the way to the signing of the Declawration of Independence 235 years ago, members of the Thirteen Pawlonies experienced a growing resentment toward the British government as legislative pawthorities Across the Pond levied taxes on the pawlonists without allowing them a say-so in Parliament. Citing “No Taxation without Repfleasentation” as our motto, the unchanging actions of the pawmpous law-making Brits led our fore-rats to fleaclare our independence, ratify the Pawnstitution, and wage the American Revolutionary War.
 
Furtunately today the Brits are our friends and one of the United States’ greatest allies, and tunes like “Yankflea Doodle,” originally intended by English soldiers to be an insult to what they perceived were disorganized pawlonial “Yanks,” have become beloved patriotic songs of our American lexicon. Through the years we have preserved our pawnstitutional rights to “Life, Liberty, and the Fursuit of Happiness,” and I’d like to take a personal opportunity right now to squeak a huge “thank you” to our servicemen and women who fight to protect the fleadoms we as Americans enjoy every day. So while you’re enjoying a Fourth of July barbeque (complete with American cheese on your burgers, I’m sure), please paws for a moment to remember and be grateful for those individuals, past and present, who have made our country what it is, and thank the Lord for blessing what this rat feels is the greatest nation in the world.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

An Itch in Time

 
With the advent of summer I’ve found myself out of the hovel a lot recently, especially in the twilight hours after the heat of the day has passed. June has seen the arrival of lightning bugs in the suburban and rural parts of Ratlanta, and I’ve enjoyed this because my beady-red rat eyes can actually see them in the nighttime (we rats have a poor sense of vision and rely mostly on smell) and they make a lovely sight. Alas, however, the time has come to say pawdios to these sparkling little gems and welcome another crepuscular insect, the mosquito. Er, perhaps “welcome” isn’t the right term; there’s nothing we welcome about them. And forget about calling them “crepuscular” (which means that they’re active at dawn and dusk) – they’re downright creepuscular if you ask me.
 
Just like with you humans, mosquitoes see rodent blood as a superior source of sustenance. And just like with y’all, when they bite they give us quite an unsqueakable itch. They’re almost worse than fleas – and fleas are fleadiculous, as I’ve mentioned in previous blogs (see Flea Market, Margarataville, and Rat Recovery). Unlike you humans, however, we don’t have the option of putting anti-itch medicine on our bug bites; it just doesn’t penetrate our fur. Instead we have to suffer through the itch and content ourselves to scratching for what seems the longest time. Not rat-tastic at all.
 
Squeaking of time, it would be fabulous if I could do a flying leap (a.k.a. fleap) ahead to a day when lab rats find a cure for the itch, or better yet, a pesticide for the pests. (Not against us, mind you … how could you ever think rats are pests? The clawdacity!) Then we’d be able to scuttle around in the twilight enjoying the fireflies (not to be confused with fire-fleas – they’re worse than mosquitoes) to our ratty hearts’ content. We could also go on multiple cheese forages without fear of the dreaded itch that will leave us scratching for hours and then grooming our fur for several hours more to make ourselves presentable. Sadly, however, lab rats have yet to build such a ratical contraption, so we can’t fast-forward or paws and rewind.
 
So until the day when science creates that elusive time machine (or at least some rodent-friendly DEET and hydrocortisone cream) we’ll be scratching through the summer nights right along with you, and looking forward to the fall when all the little buggers say “pawdios” themselves. In the meantime, be sure to stay close to your flea-swatter; so will we.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Raternal Bonds

 
I’ve mentioned in numerous past blogs that my wife, Bobette the Mouse, and I have quite a little brood of our own: octuplets Harry, Larry, Barry, Jerry, Mary, Sherry, Kerry, and Terry, four boys and four girls. They certainly do give us the scuttle-around: being baby rice (since rice is what you get when rats marry mice), they come pre-programmed full of energy with all that starch inside. They’re constantly bouncing all around the hovel (I bet you didn’t know that rice bounce, but try it! go drop you a few grains on the kitchen countertop and see what they do) and as for settling them down for nap time, forget it: you’d have an easier time convincing a rat to attend a cat convention than getting my eight to squeak some shut-eye.
 
Today is Father’s Day, however, and as such I was hoping they would let me sleep in just a little bit late (like I did last week) as a nice present to the old sire. The octuplets had different plans, however. Harry and Mary were first to scuttle in, nudging me off my nestlet to make them my specialty, cheesy eggs with pawpcorn, for breakfast. Barry and Kerry were next, dragging me by the paw to come see the new hole they’d burrowed in the back yard. Then Larry, Jerry, and Sherry rallied the others into getting me to play a game of Hide-and-Squeak, and little Terry, last of all, was not to be outdone: dashing across the burrow, she did a flying leap (we call that a fleap) that would make the Olympic Diving Committee proud right into my paws, snuffling her little rice nose right aside my whiskers in a gesture of replete affection. (She always has been my little snuggler.)
 
So although it would be easier if they’d been born baby mats (which is what you get when mice marry rats), I’ll take my little grains of energy any day paws down – ratscals though they may be, the joys of having them want to spend time with their Paw-Paw beats any amount of slumber I’d try to savor for myself.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Rat Nap

 
Have you heard Bruno Mars’s “The Lazy Song” yet? Very funny indeed … I think all of us need a “slob day” every now and then. (Some would argue that rats take a slob day every day – something about our affinity for grossness – but I digress.)
 
Yesterday was one of those days for me: I didn’t check my flea-mail, scuttle onto Muzzlebook, or even bother to groom my fur; nope, I just stayed in my nestlet all day. I wasn’t ratatonic, mind you: I at least did sniff around the hovel for some cheese crumbs at some point, but by and large it was a squeaktacular day for a rat nap, which is a good downer from all the stress in the news lately (from human and rodent perspectives alike).
 
Staying in my cool hole in the wall was also a great escape from the oppressive Ratlanta heat: currently the Deep South is gripped in a drought-inducing heat wave. (Contrast that to the icy vice grips of Old Man Winter we had at the beginning of the year … it’s fleadiculous! There’s one thing you can predict easily about Georgia weather, and that’s that it’s unpredictable.) With temperatures forecast in the upper 90s I was happy to stay in the coolness of my little hovel, carved out right next to the air conditioning vent in the wall of my human family’s home. (They haven’t found it yet, and that’s likely a good thing – I think they probably wouldn’t appreciate my, er, “remodeling.”)
 
So while the heat continues to burn like brass and the news unrelentingly doles up its craziness in the world, I think I might indeed return to the nestlet and catch another 40 stinks – uh, make that winks. (I’m not by the scullery, after all.) I hope you too can find the freedom to take a slob day every now and then and indulge yourself in your own rat nap. After all, it’s like Bruno says: “Today I don’t feel like doing anything … nothing at all.”
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Cheesy Jokes

 

As you may have surmised from these many blogs I’ve written over the past year describing my ratty antics, I like my jokes like I like my pizza: extra-cheesy. Here are some cheesy jokes to give a whiskery tickle to your funny bone.
 
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What’s a rodent’s favorite breakfast food? Mice Krispies!
 
What does a rat do when it has a toothache? It goes to the rodentist.
 

How do you get a great-looking lawn? Aerate the soil.
 
Why didn’t the rat squeak his boss what he really thought? He didn’t have the pawdacity.
 
What is a romantic rodent’s favorite holiday? Volentine’s Day!
 
What’s the best present a rat can give his wife on their anniversary? Chewelry.
  
How do rodents keep their drinks cold? They put mice cubes in them!

 

Why did the rats leave the theater? They didn’t think the movie was rodentertaining.
 
What does a rodent say when it wants you to stop a video? “Paws the tape!”
 
Why couldn't the rodent get tickets to the game? It was voled out.
 
Which rodents are the best at solving crimes? Miami Mice!
 
Why did the police think that the rodent was using drugs? He was acting irrationally.
 
Why was the cop happy when he finally caught the fugitive? He was tired of the cat-and-mouse game.
 
Why shouldn’t you mess with an Asian rodent? It might know karate.
 
Which mice were the best at sword fights? The Three Mouseketeers!
 
Which rodent’s favorite letter is “Arr”? A pirat.
 
What’s the process by which bald rodent pups grow fur as they mature? Metamorfuzzis.
 
What did the big rat say to the little rat? “You’re a pipsqueak!”
  

Why couldn’t the rat drive into town? His ratiator overheated!
 
Why didn’t the rodent’s car pass emissions testing? The ratalytic converter was broken.
 
Which rodents make the best mechanics? Hood rats!
 
What do you call rodents who are rich? Aristocrats!
 
Why did the rat leave the military? He was pawnorably discharged.
 
What do you call rats who are brothers? A fraternity.
 
What did the rat say when he scuttled by the dumpster? “This smells pawful! (Anybody want lunch?)”
 
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I hope you’ve been entertained by my side-splitting squeaks, and never fear: just as one would describe the breeding habits of us rodents, there’s more where that came from. So stay tuned to Bob’s Blogs – same rat time, same rat channel – because hey, it’s not easy being cheesy, but some rat’s gotta do it.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

The Apawcalypse

 
Wow! Last week may have seen many media-worthy events in the rat world (see The Rodent Weekly, Volume 2), but we don’t hold a whisker to what’s gone on with you humans these past several days! From the Center for Disease Control’s May 16th preparedness promotion blog in the face of the Zombie Apocalypse to religious fundamentalist Harold Camping’s prediction of the coming of Judgment Day on May 21st, it’s a wonder that all of you aren’t in the streets waving your hands and screaming, “It’s the end of the world!”
 
I’m certainly not one to squeak doomsday – we rodents scratched a page from history when Chicken Little’s cries of “The sky is falling!” turned out to be dangerously misinformed – so it may come as no surprise that my fur hasn’t been ruffled about all these interesting end-of-world goings-on. (Truth be squeaked, however, my cheese crumbs are on the flesh-eating zombies … hey, at least there’s food involved!) On the contrary, me and mine are happy to be safe in our little hovel in spite of the apawcalyptic predictions, although the pups are upset that they haven’t found an excuse to get out of doing their chores. (The boys in particular give me a constant fuss about having to make up their nestlets in the morning.)
 
I know that there are very strong feelings held by many out there about the end times, so I won’t begin to squeak a statement of belief or banter in one direction or another that may offend someone. My blog by all means is meant to be humorous, but never at someone’s expense. Please, really, take it at muzzle value – laugh along and know that I’m not pawing fun at one group or another. (Except, perhaps, the believers of the apawcalyptic undead. But in case there is an invasion, it’s a good idea to have an emergency preparedness kit and evacuation plan as the CDC suggests.)
 
So in spite of zombies encroaching and worldwide panfleamonium taking place, I hope you and yours have gotten through the week more or less intact, and at the end can draw close together and smile. As for me, I’ll follow the lyrics of R.E.M.’s song “It’s the End of the World” and simply squeak, “It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine.”
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

The Rodent Weekly, Volume 2

 
A great flurry of activity has been going on within the rat community lately, so I figured now was an appropriate time to let you humans view a second installment of our preferred method of media dispersal, The Rodent Weekly. (You may remember Volume One from last October.) Here are the latest headlines regarding what’s up in the rat world:
 
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News: Rat Bailout Causes Concerns in Wake of Floods
Flooding in the Mississippi River is causing major concerns regarding a rodent mass exodus as rats bail out of ships in ratical amounts in the wake of the river’s cresting. Flood shelters, which have been set up in multiple states to house these drowned rats, are expected to reach capacity as rodents arrive in high numbers to escape the murky rush. The American Rat Cross has vowed to provide adequate nestlet fodder and sufficient stores of cheese to support each evacuee until the waters subside.
 
Weather: Last week’s storms expected to carry over into this one – forecasters predict 70% chance of raining cats and dogs Monday through Thursday. Best for rodents to stay inside.
 
Traffic: Recent rains have cleared blockage in sewer under Fourth Street; traffic flowing freely.
 
Sports: Mouse sets new speed record running up and down clock at Hickory Dickory Dock track.
 
Business: Economists predict lower grocery costs – including those for cheese – as oil and gas prices are anticipated to go down, but consumers have yet to set their beady little rodent eyes on the promised price plunge.
 
Classifieds: Job opening at Ratlanta Police Department for rodent able to translate “Hood Rat” squeaks.
 
Health: Mold in blue cheese recently claimed to be unhealthy for rodents, but findings are disputed by residents of cheese-producing regions. More research is needed by lab rats to make a definitive decision.
 
Fitness: Docrats extol virtues of latest exercise product to hit the markets, the Hamster Wheel 3000. The HW3K is said to have been instrumental in helping clock-running mouse train for success at Hickory Dickory Dock track.
 
Science and Technology: New eye-tracking software rumored to replace use of computer mouse in human electronics. Rodents in tech industry pushing for boycott of new product.
 
Music: Justin Beaver concert sold out at Ratlanta’s Fox Theater this Raturday night. (Security not an issue: foxes expected to keep cats at bay during concert.)
 
Events: Ratlanta Food and Wine Festival expected to be a smorgasbord of delight for the culinary-inclined, as it is widely known that cheese pairs particularly well with wine. Attendees are encouraged to feast to their ratty hearts’ delight, but cautioned to stay out of eye shot of humans.
 
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Thanks for sniffing around, and as before, do please continue to throw out your old newspapers once you’ve finished reading them … oh, what comfortable nestlet fodder they are.

Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Mother Mouse

 
Oh Mother’s Day, sweet Mother’s Day,
How much we do adore
Our mother on sweet Mother’s Day,
We love you more and more.
  
A rat you met, then did beget
Some great octuplet rice;
For rice is what will fill your hut
When rats are wed to mice.
 
Our tears you cried with us beside
When others stole our cheese;
When whiskers bent, our love you sent;
You kissed away our fleas.
 
Some nights you said, “Kids, go to bed!
You drive me up the wall;”
Though patience taxed, you weren’t relaxed
Yet still you loved us all.
 
We ruffle fur and wrath incur
And nerves we like to fray :o),
But even though you squeak us “no”
We love you more each day.
 
So to you now, please take a bow!
For you’re a Mighty Mouse;
Your pups love you, and Daddy too:
You’re his beloved spouse.
 
Now Mother’s day, oh Mother’s Day,
Remind us in our core
To honor Mom on Mother’s Day,
For now and evermore.
 
With love to Bobette the Mouse from your octuplet rice,
Harry, Larry, Barry, Jerry, Mary, Sherry, Kerry, and Terry

The AristocRats

 

This past Friday the entire world was enratured by the royal wedding of Prince William of Wales to his college sweetheart, Kate Middleton. Among the 1,900 wedding attendees were many members of the United Kingdom’s aristocrats, including singer Elton John, actor Anthony Hopkins, and of course Elizabeth II, the Queen (and Prince William’s proud grandmother) herself. What most of you humans didn’t know, however, is that there were also a number of aristocrats in attendance.

 

Ah yes, the wedding wouldn’t be complete without the presence of the royal rodent high society.

 

… What? You don’t think our kind have peeps (er, “squeaks,” rather) in the higher-ups across the pawnd? How unsqueakable! And just where did you presume all of the immigrant rat stowaways who hid in the bowels of yesteryear’s ocean-traversing ships came from, if not from Europe, hmm? No, it was from there that we hail indeed. And just like with you humans, our more notable (and certainly more well-to-do) cousins have remained in the homeland, and they would by no means miss such an important occasion as the wedding of the second in line to the throne himself.

 

And the pomp and circumstance surrounding the ceremonies was squeaktacular indeed. Of particular note regarding the fashion scene was the stunning array of rat hats worn by the dames … some of which looked better than others. (Most of the attendees were going for a dramratic look, and some stood out as quite rat-tastic while others were downright pawful. I myself am not into hats – they tend to slide off from between my ears – but one thing is for sure: those Brits do indeed have a different fashion sense than we in the States embrace.) Not to be outdone, the sires made sure that their fur was unruffled and their whiskers well-groomed, many of the older gentlerats even curling them into a Q.

 

The procession taking place in Westmuenster Abbey, our royal rodent brethren were quite glad, peeping out from between the legs of the human nobility, to watch the happy couple exchange their vows. But according to the roving rodent reporters who covered the event, best of all was the reception, as the aristocrats had a corner on the market for – you guessed it – the wedding cheesecake. Yes, while Prince William and his bride were cutting a rug on the dance floor, our European elitists stole more than one little nibble from that delectable delicacy, going completely unnoticed by the joyous revelers around them (some of whom probably had just one too many margaratas). And as the reception wound down our cousins silently made their way back into the night and on home to their hovels in the sewers, crossing London Bridge on the way which, thankfully, did not fall down.

 

So today the United Kingdom has itself a new royal couple in which to delight, and the rats of Great Britain too take great pride in that most squeaktacious event which, for a few hours, held the whole world in its paws. And the curly-Q’d gentlerats are happiest of all, for they are still nibbling on the cheesecake that got caught in their whiskers.

 

Keepin’ it squeak,

Bob

The Easter Rattit

 
So just how many of you humans awoke this morning to find that the Easter Rabbit had paid you a visit? Perhaps he left you some eggs and a little bit of chocolate (and, if you were especially nice, a toy or two)? Well, we in the Rat hovel had a visitation ourselves, not by the Easter Rabbit – he’s too big to fit into the entrance hole – but by the Easter Rattit.
 
Much as in your human tradition, the Easter Rattit comes and leaves us colored eggs, but instead of being hard-boiled like the chicken eggs you have, the ones he leaves for us are filled with cheese. Ooey gooey cheese, like melted cheddar; soft, succulent cheese, like brie; cheese with a twang, like bleu (those ones come in blue Easter eggs), and, of course, the favorite of every rodent: stringy mozzarella … it tends to get caught in our whiskers, so we always have a snack for later.
 
My wife, Bobette the Mouse, and I and our Rats + Mice = Rice hybrid octuplet offspring, Harry, Larry, Barry, Jerry, Mary, Sherry, Kerry, and Terry were all very excited to crack out of the nestlet first thing this morning. I didn’t even have to scuttle into the boys’ room to get them moving, as I do so many days (they’re not quick-minute rice); no, they jumped right out of bed – hopping as high as your native Rabbit – to scurry out and see what had been brought! And sure enough, we were all happy to see with our little rodent eyes that the Easter Rattit didn’t disappoint: in fact, instead of just a basketful, he left a whole platter of eggs … yummy, cheese-filled Easter eggs. Oh what a delight the coming days will be!
 
So as you and yours try to cope henceforth with the crashes that will come following the sugar highs and me and mine deal with what we know will be bad cases of dairy-induced constipation, I hope all of us can say we had a “hoppy” Easter. And if you find you’re in the mood for some cheese, just go for the blue eggs … they’re delicious.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Squeaky Clean

 
Yesterday was a squeaktacious day as this rat romped round and round the little town of Rex. And just why was I romping? Well, I wasn’t romping so much as I was cleaning. Yesterday in the village of Rex, a suburb located on the south side of Ratlanta, the humans and I had a cleanup day as part of the Great American Cleanup movement. We planted flowers; we trashed the trash; we dumped out debris; it was pawsome indeed.
  
Yes, yes, you might be wondering why a rat has an interest in anything to do with the word clean – especially one who relies on Mother Nature for baths and holds company with some pawticularly hygiene-challenged friends. But let me remind you that I moonlight as a dumpster cleaner and am owner of and foreman (er, make that forerat) at Sludge-Be-Gone, the best sewer-scrubbing company in the city. And as I mention quite articulately on my Muzzlebook page, I am indeed adept at keeping my whiskers clean.
 
So let it come as no surprise to you that this ratical rodent was quite keen to help clean with the residents of Rex, and though I did leave at the end of the day with soil on my fur and dirt underneath my claws (my little rat paws were too small to fit into the human-sized work gloves), to hear the Rex residents rave at the rat-tastic results was well worth the hard work indeed.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

The Awesome Pawsome

    
      It was a dark and stormy night. Under the streets of Ratlanta, a horrendous plot was being devised from four of the most devastating super-villains of all time, a scheme that would bring the bustling metropolis to its knees. From an underground lair hidden deep within the leaky city sewers, The Rattler, Catwoman, Malevolent Muskrat, and Pawful Possum huddled close together in thought, hatching a plan to steal the entire city’s American cheese!

 

    “Without their American cheese, none of the humans will be able to make grilled cheese sandwiches,” The Rattler hissed.

     “They’ll have to switch to peanut butter and jelly,” Catwoman purred to her rat snake partner in crime.
     “They’ll all have peanut butter breath,” Malevolent Muskrat grinned hideously, letting out a very stinky seethe of satisfaction from between his green, rotted teeth.
     “Their tongues will stick to the roofs of their mouths!” said Pawful Possum, as he curled his scaly tail in delight.
     “And with all the American cheese in our possession,” The Rattler concluded, “every rodent in Ratlanta will be squeaking boo-hoo as we eat our fill!”
 
 
      Little did they know that in another part of the city, Punxsutawney Phil, down from Pennsylvania visiting his good friends, Ratman and Bobin, was hot on the heels of their paws of crime. (Furtunately for the citizens of Ratlanta this prominent prognosticator could predict more than just the weather.)
 
      “Holy hairballs, Ratman!” Bobin squeaked after hearing Phil’s updates on the evil cheese-stealing plans of the super-villains. “We’ll need help to handle this!”
     “You’re right, my faithful sidekick,” Ratman exclaimed; “this is a job for ‘The Awesome Pawsome’!”
 
     Without a moment’s hesitation he scurried out and lit up the Rat-Signal, a giant paw print in the sky that let the rodent heroes of Ratlanta know there was a call to action. In the shake of a whisker all had gathered at the Rat Cave, a little hole-in-the-wall dug into the heart of the municipal sewer system giving the heroes quick access to crime-fighting on the city streets above.
 
     “It won’t be hard to find out where they’re gathering everything,” said Super Sniff; “I can smell Malevolent Muskrat’s rancid breath miles and miles away!”
    “Indeed, once we know where they’re hiding, it will only be a matter of searching before we discover where the cheese is hidden,” replied The Great Mouse Detective, holding his magnifying glass close in front of his muzzle.
     “And once we’ve sniffed out those villains, as my smell-sensitive comrat pointed out, it will only be a matter of paw-wrestling them into submission!” exclaimed Mighty Mouse, flexing his muscular mousey biceps.
     “Let’s scuttle to it, then!” exclaimed Ratman. “Sniff – do your thing!”

 
 

     Within minutes Super Sniff’s stupendous snout led the rodent heroes to the super-villains’ lair, and it was only a moment later that The Great Mouse Detective found where the stores of American cheese were hidden.
 
    “Here we come to save the day!” Mighty Mouse’s squeak rang out joyously as The Awesome Pawsome scampered down on the unsuspecting evildoers. For a moment it was all scuffling:
 
     Bam!
     Whap!

     Pow!
     Scratch!
 
     And soon thereafter the super-villainous cuatro found themselves tied up with one of The Rattler’s recently shed snake skins.
 
     “Rats … foiled again!” they all exclaimed.
    “You rotten ratscals,” Ratman scolded, “you should know you’re no match for The Awesome Pawsome!”
 
    And so the citizens of Ratlanta, human and rodent alike, can be thankful that The Awesome Pawsome has come to yet another rat-tastic rescue, and we can rest assured that our squeaktacular superheroes will always be with us, fighting for truth, justice, and the American cheese!
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Barely Squeaking By

 
With the recent rains in Ratlanta flushing blockages in the sewers away (even that particularly large one under Fourth Street), my fellow sewer inspectors and I at Sludge-Be-Gone have had trouble sniffing out work. Indeed, it seems like the only foul aromas drifting our way are emanating from the odiferous colonies of muskrats who reside in the city zoo. So we’ve been forced to change our specialty to cleaning out dumpsters. Fortunately the nastiness therein still fits the word “Sludge” in our company’s title, so that’s ratical.
 
Problem is, cleaning out dumpsters isn’t nearly as lucrative as mucking out sewers, mainly owing to the fact that dumpsters are much smaller than the miles of leaky pipes underground. I’ve had to take a 75% cut in my cheese crumb salary, and that’s making it a little difficult to feed my brood. My wife, Bobette the Mouse, and our Rats + Mice = Rice hybrid octuplets, Harry, Larry, Barry, Jerry, Mary, Sherry, Kerry, and Terry, are taking it in stride, but as the family provider I feel like it’s cutting into my self-esteem as a husband and father.
 
Because of this I recently decided to take a second job as a fry cook at a Chinese restaurant. Doing so has had several benefits: (1) I’ve been able to boost my cheese crumb income; (2) access to their dumpster has scuttled up more business at Sludge-Be-Gone; and (3) I’ve become adept at making Cream of Sumyung Cat. Not bad for a ratty day’s work.
 
So even in the midst of the economic recession and the clog-clearing, sewer-robbing rains frequenting Ratlanta (we’re expecting another pawful round of storms tonight), I have reason to look at the bright side: not only am I able to provide for my family and have a little fun doing it, I now also have a new dumpster-cleaning branch of services I can offer at Sludge-Be-Gone.
 

Until next blog, stay pawsitive and squeaktacularly rat-tastic.
 

Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Ratical Rain

 
Last night saw the arrival of some squeaktacular storms here in Ratlanta. Indeed, with all the torrential rains, tornados, hail, and lightning, it was certainly a night fit for neither man nor beast. (I’m not squeaking that I’m a beast, mind you, but you get the idea.)
 
It’s safe to say that no one in the rat hovel got a lot of sleep last night … too much thunder. (We rodents have sensitive ears.) But my brood and I huddled together for safety, and my wife, Bobette, and I made sure our pups stayed safe and sound.
 
I was more concerned for my rat pal Gus, who resides in the sewers. For while the city’s sewer inspectors are now quite happy that the blockage under Fourth Street is no longer a problem, I was very worried that Gus would become, well, a drowned rat. But this morning he posted on Muzzlebook that he’s alright, so I am rat-tastically relieved.
 
I, however, had my own challenges with becoming a drowned rat. Once day broke and the rain showers were over, I crept from my hovel to rustle up some rat chow and accidentally fell out of a window. (The sill was still slick.) Thankfully I landed in the bed of my human family’s truck, which was filled with about twenty gallons of water courtesy of the storm. And I made a surprising discovery: due to the fact that I’m made of rubber, I float. I didn’t even have to swim! And as an added bonus I’ve had my bath for the day, so hopefully Bobette won’t bother me about keeping my fur well groomed for a while.
 
If you reside in Ratlanta, I hope you stayed safe in last night’s storms. But if the unthinkable happened and you had a roof collapse because of a downed tree or experienced some flooding in your home, look on the bright side: at least you’ve had your bath for the day, and you don’t have to worry about that blockage anymore.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

St. Ratrick’s Day

 
Top o’ the marnin’ to ya!
 
Er, let’s make that “top o’ the afternoon.” Me best rat mate Gus an’ I got a bit o’ a head start on our St. Ratrick’s Day celebratin’ at our favorite Irish pub, O’Flannigan’s, an’ unfortunately I took a bit o’ a dip in the Guinness jug, so me times o’ day (an’ a few other thin’s) are a wee messed up right now. (Indeed it does be soundin’ like I been nuzzlin’ the Blarney Stone.)
 
Ah, today be the day we celebrate all thin’s Irish. Me human family – whose last name be McGill (which means “mercenary” of all thin’s) – are excited that on this day the whole world acknowledges their proud heritage, an’ does so with no small amount o’ drinkin’ at the pub an’ wearin’ o’ the green.
 
Speakin’ o’ the green, there be many cities that do dye their rivers, fountains, an’ other bodies o’ water green on this very Irish day, which be good, I suppose, as “goin’ green” seems to be the thing many o’ ye humans want to do these days. Here in Ratlanta, however, the rivers, fountains, an’ other bodies o’ water (especially the sewers) be runnin’ green for a different reason – mainly me rat pal Gus. As I squeaked about September last in me blog Rattus Flatus, Gus has, let’s say, a wee problem with his, er, “backside emissions.” Yes, unfartunately the waters be runnin’ green here for that reason, for just as said emissions are still able to burst car tires an’ wither plant life, so they are, in large doses (which he can certainly supply), able to color the waters a nasty (not to mention smelly) shade o’ the blue an’ yellow combined.
 
So while ye be celebratin’ at the pub this St. Ratrick’s day, if ye be in Ratlanta I’d advise ye to stick to the Guinness, an’ at all costs avoid the greeny water. Fartunately this holiday be comin’ only once a year, so until next St. Ratty’s Day, inhale the intoxicating fumes o’ yer Guinness for a few more hours, for ye can breathe the fresh air tomorrow.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Flea Market

 
Today I dared to boldly scuttle where no rat has scuttled before – the flea market.
 
As if I hadn’t learned my lesson from the nasty bout of sand fleas I contracted in Margarataville last August, I decided to tag along with my human family today as they headed to a local flea market. They enjoyed the sights and sounds, perusing over many antiques, old coins, and, of course, the leather goods (Big Burly Pop really likes those), but I was quick to sneak around to the concession stands and see if I could indulge myself in a little nacho cheese.
 
En route to the food fare, however, I passed a booth advertising “The Fantabulous Flea Circus,” and my beady-red rat eyes just couldn’t resist a look-see. Yeah, that wasn’t the most rat-tastic idea I’ve ever had. The first performing acts – juggling jumpers, tightrope crawlers, and trapfleas artists – were, I admit, pretty pawsome. And I was quite astounded by the cat tamer’s performance. In fact, I was rather enjoying myself until Fernanda the Flying Flea launched herself out of a flea-sized cannon and landed right onto my fur. Ooh, the itching … how I squirmed and jumped and scratched to get that little bugger off me! The humans who had gathered about assumed I was just a part of the circus’s acroratics routine, and wailed with laughter. And to make matters worse, Fernanda happened to be pregnant, so in a few days when all of her eggs hatch I will certainly not be a happy rat. (Luckily I found some Flea-Be-Gone in an old first aid kit that was there, so I’m going to head those biting blighters off at the pass.)
 
So my visit to the flea market turned out to be a humbug event indeed, and while I ponder the effects of what a mess I’ve gotten myself into and hope that those creepy critters aren’t harboring the plague, I will send you a warning: if you have plans to go to the flea market, do adore the antiques, ogle at the old coins, and lavish the leather, but for your own benefit, flee from the flea circus as fast as your feet will fly!
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob