Sunday, July 31, 2011

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

Sunday, July 24, 2011

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

Saturday, July 16, 2011

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

Sunday, July 10, 2011

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

Monday, July 4, 2011

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