Sunday, August 21, 2011

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

Sunday, August 14, 2011

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