Sunday, March 27, 2011

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

Thursday, March 17, 2011

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

Sunday, March 6, 2011

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