The Tail End of It

    
With a squeak we’ve reached the conclusion of 2012. Perhaps it’s because the human who translates my rat squeaks is back in college, but this year has been one of great learning for me. And if you will indulge me for a moment, I’d like to pass along some of the lessons I’ve gleaned:

• Do your best to make a good impression on others; that first one won’t come again.
• Keeping up appearances is fleasential, so try to keep your fur well groomed and remember to slap a smile on your muzzle. (Come on, let’s see those incisors sparkle!)
• Cheese is full of calcium, so indulge whenever possible. Your sparkling incisors will thank you!
• Keep fit with frequent exercise. (I prefer a daily scuttle on the hamster wheel.)
• Stand up for what you believe in, even when it’s easier to take the sewer of least resistance.
• Show some love to those around you; support them in sickness and in health.
• Express gratitude for every blessing.
• Extend a paw to every rat, whether they’re just like you or a little different.
• Don’t search for greener pastures when the sewer in front of you is so pawsome.
• Sometimes you may find yourself in over your muzzle and other times left high and dry. So if you’re ever in hot water, just keep ratty-paddling through it!
• Though it’s tempting to misbehave, try to keep your muzzle clean.
• But don’t forget to live it up a little bit!
• Try to stay away from pawliticians and other mudslingers because they can mess up the fur you worked so hard to groom.
• Life may put you to the test, but even when bad things happen, dig your claws in and never give up!

That’s all for now; time to squeak pawdios to 2012. But don’t worry: even though we’ve reached the tail end of this year’s adventure, there’s no end in sight to Bob’s Blogs!
 
Keepin’ it squeak,

Bob

Naughty or Mice

 
Tick – tock – tick – tock … only hours to go until C-Day! (You know, “C” for Christmouse.) In the Rat hovel, my octuplet pups are making their last appeals to Santa Paws for inclusion in the Nice category of his “Naughty or Mice” list.
 
For days they’ve been trying to make up for a year’s worth of pawful behavior. Harry and Larry are hard at work repairing the drywall they gnawed through in my human family’s house, while Barry and Jerry are in the bathroom scrubbing their incisors and promising no cavities on their next trip to the rodentist. Mary, Sherry, and Kerry, whose favorite pastime is dressing their little sister, Terry, in dolls’ clothes, are quickly returning their rattention to their actual toys, and the tiniest octuplet, whose favorite pastime is chewing said doll clothing, is rapidly mending the holes.
 
And so we come to tonight, Christmouse Eve. They’ve stuffed themselves into their nestlets and are hoping to awake to pawkings stuffed with cheese crumbs. My wife, Bobette the Mouse, and I can only sit back and laugh at our hybrid rice offspring (because rice is what you get when rats marry mice); we understand that their high starch content contributes to those extreme energy levels.
 
Truth be squeaked, they’re nice rice far more often than not. Our little pups are one – make that eight – in a million, and even though they can be ratscals at times, Bobette and I wouldn’t trade them for all the cheese in the world. Nope; tonight I’ll leave my own letter of appeal to Father Christmouse letting him know how pawsome they are, and ask that the only one to get coal this year be the cat!
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Spawtacus

  
Today has been a pretty rainy one here in Ratlanta. This is great for helping the unsqueakable drought we’re in (even the sewers are nearly bone-dry!). But the slick earth has brought with it just a little bit of slipping around, and more than just a little bit of mud.
 
The wet brown stuff has, however, conjured up a little nostalgia. You see, in my wilder days as a pup I was a mud wrestler! My stage name? Spawtacus, of course! Who better to channel than that great gladfleator of old in order to instill fear and trembling in the hearts of my oppawnents?!
 
I remember my greatest match ever, against Nero the Knockout. This mighty murine was as muscular as they make, because not only did the nickname “Knockout” describe his powerful paws, it also stood for the weakness gene he was missing from his DNA. (He started life as a genetically modified laboratory mouse.)
 
On the day Nero and I wrestled, the pit was pawticularly muddy because it had rained cats and dogs beforehand. (We had to wait a while until the cats left.) Nero came out swinging his mighty mousey paws, but I counteracted with my much longer tail. I thought he had me for a moment when he strong-pawed me to the edge of the mud pit, but when he rose up on his hind-claws to deliver the final blow, I took the pawportunity to wrap him in a bear – make that rat – hug and topple him to the ground. There were two things in that match that Nero didn’t count on: (1) I, too, was born in a lab, and got the knock-in extended life gene – which means I never squeak “die”; and (2) boxing is best reserved for bipedal creatures like humans, not top-heavy ones that scuttle on all fours.
 
My mud wrestling days are now done (in part due to the cheese belly I’ve amassed as I’ve aged), but I still look with fondness on the day I knocked the Knockout to the ground. And should Nero ever want a rematch, the undefleated Spawtacus is ready to give it to him … but in a different way: I’ll treat him to such a sweet mud pie cheesecake that we’ll be comrats for life!
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Pawliteration Day

 
Today is 12/12/12, the last date with alliteration most of our rat-tastic eyes will see (unless you plan to be around next century, of course). All over the world people have plans for this unique day, from mass meditations to music concerts to weddings – and if you’re in this final category, forgetting your wedding date would just be downright pawful.
 
I have my own ratty plans for the day. First I plan to marvel at the repeating holes in some blocks of Swiss cheese. Then I’m off to study the rhythmic swirls that form when Colby meets Monterey Jack, and finally I’ll examine the marbling made by the moldy vein patterns in my favorite samples of bleu. Well, actually the final part will be eating my little cheese nubs … yum!
 
I hope your day of “pawliteration” is festive and fun-filled. It’s Wednesday, which means “Hump Day” for most of the working world, and many of us will be sunk deep into the patterns of our daily lives. But I hope you can stick your muzzle out for a moment and break the mold. And don’t worry: if you forget to get in on the fun, your next ratical date’s soon to come: 11/12/13, to be exact!
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Fleacember

 
Holy hairballs! December is already here! Where’d the time go?
 
’Tis the time of year when temperatures drop and rats spend more time in their burrows, avoiding frigid ears and frozen whiskers. But I think someone forgot to squeak Old Man Winter to visit the southern United States: today’s high in Ratlanta, where I live, is a balmy 67°F!
 
Unfortunately that’s pretty paw for the course for this region of the country, which is why indigenous rodents refer to this month as Fleacember. Not all the fleas have died off since the weather hasn’t turned cold enough, and believe me, rats everywhere are itching to get those little buggers gone!
 
One rat-tastic thing about the month, though, is that with the coming of Christmouse I get to don (or is that Donner?) my Santa Paws duds! They’re this month’s fashion, no matter what the temp is outside.
 
Fleacember – and November, October, September, March, and February, for that matter – are months that invariably experience a roller-coaster ride in temperature fluctuations. So though it feels pawsome now, these moments will sadly be fleating. Soon enough Mr. Winter will get his message, and I’ll be freezing my little tail off. And as for Christmouse Day: with a hit-or-miss temperature bounce-back, it’s anybody’s guess as to weather we’ll be scampering about in shirt sleeves or fur coats!
 
In the meantime, I’ll keep my own seasonal suit right next to my fur, because with the magic that only Santa Paws can bring, he made sure the fabric will always be itch-inhibiting and flea-free!
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Birds and Blessings

 
Oh Thanksgiving, that most joyous day when we gather ’round a roasted bird, commune with the family members that get in our fur, and express gratitude for our many blessings. (I’m still thankful from past pawlidays that I’m not the copy of Golf Magazine Uncle George likes to enjoy during his annual post-turkey trip to the loo!)
 
We in the Rat hovel have much to be thankful for this year. The pups are excelling in school; all eight are earning straight R’s (you know, R for rodent). This year they took up a new subject: Ratin. Consequently, they’ve gone from calling me “Paw-Paw” to “Rattus,” my species’ scientific name. (Squeaky – er, cheeky – little critters.) Meanwhile, the love continues to compound daily between my wife, Bobette, and me. I can also thank the extended-life gene she and I both received in our days as lab animals, and its subsequent transmission to our octuplet offspring. Due to it I know we can look forward to many more Thanksgivings together, in spite of the fact that the process of “looking” itself is difficult for poor-sighted rodents. (We tend to rely on our sense of smell.)
 
Squeaking – ahem, speaking – of smell, I catch the waft of a turkey feast coming down the hall now! We’ll be dining (invited or not! though we always are) with my human family. And they can have their gobbler; I’ve already smelled what I want: can anyone squeak, “Cheesecake”?
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Test Squeak

 
This is a test squeak of the Emergency Rat-cast System. This is only a squeak. Had this been an actual emergency you would have been asked to scurry around frantically, hoard your stores of cheeses, and raid the kitchens of every restaurant in sight!

Flealection 2012

 

Last night, America’s all-important Presidential Flealection 2012 was held, and unlike the mid-term flealections two years ago, this round did not see a great deal of change on the squirrelitical scene. The Burrow of Ratresentatives and Senate saw the swapping of only a few seats between Democrats and Fleapublicans. And though flealection night coverage of the race was a real claw-biter at its outset, media outlets proclaimed President Barack Obama’s victory over challenger Mitt Romney in the 10 o’clock hour, announcing that we’ll be referring to Obama as the Big Cheese for another four years.

Competition in the realm of rodent pawlitics was no less fierce, from vocal rat rants to spirited fleabates to instances where candidrats on both sides ended up putting their paws in their mouths due to their out-of-taste squeaks. Action on the campaign tail was pretty focused, with each candidrat keeping their visits to primarily the rattleground states. Both sides were also criticized for forgetting the purpose of our rat tails — to maintain balance — with their stances leaning so far to the right or left.

Topics like cat population control and cleaner sewers remained on the docket from 2010’s flealection, and new issues were added, such as the cheese shortage currently being experienced by some of our nation’s top dairy states and the promise of the Democrats to put a flea-swatter in every hovel. Economics was also at the forefront of everyone’s mind, conservratives (and especially supporters of the Flea Party movement) still arguing that the trillion cheese-crumb bailout of 2008–2009 simply hasn’t worked. Those in opposition to illegal immigration also made their squeaks heard, channeling the desire of activist Fievel Mousekewitz’s mantra “There are no cats in America!” to come to pass.

In the end, Wrongress has stayed more or less just as it was. (Many in the rodent world are happy to see that they didn’t vote all the rats out of office.) Obama won both the pawpular and the flealectoral vote, sealing the deal on Romney’s loss when he won the rattleground state of Ohio. So congratulations to the president and his fellow Democrats; the Fleapublicans will have to wait another four years.

It seems, at the end of the night, that it’s back to pawlitics as usual.

Keepin’ it squeak,

Bob

Bob and Weave

 
I love my fur, I do. But sporting the same style since they molded it that way at the rubber-rat-making factory quite some years ago has gotten kind of old. I’ve wanted something new and exciting, so recently I decided to go and get a new fur-do.
 
I scuttled my way over to the local fur salon – it wasn’t hard to find because all I had to do was follow the stench of fur-laden perm chemicals (the curly-Q look for whiskers has recently come into fashion) – and plopped my tail into a barber’s chair. My stylist, upon hearing my dilemma, assured me I was in good paws, but my whiskers nonetheless gave a not-so-subtle twitch of apprehension.
 
She sunk her claws deep into my scalp and started shaking her forepaws, teasing my black locks skyward, and then began to intertwine some thick, curly synthetic fibers all over my head. I could feel it weighing down my ears as strand after frizzy strand was stitched onto my noggin.
 
Finally she spun me around for the reveal. My thoughts: let me just squeak that I never thought it was possible for a rodent to resemble Tina Turner, and I now crouch corrected!
 
In the future, I think I’ll stick with the factory model.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Hello Gutter, Hello Fodder

 
Hello Gutter, Hello Fodder
How I got here: story’s odder
Than the presence of a rat
Who does blogs and tweets and Facebook just to chat.
 
I was wandering down the street
Looking for something to eat
When a sudden rain storm swept me
Down a manhole that was icky, slick, and slimy.
 
When I got up I was sodden
But was not to be downtrodden.
For the sight before my rat eyes
Was like winning at a fair the biggest grand prize.
 
See, my rat pals, holy geez,
They all had huge stacks of cheese!
There were all types, brie and cheddar
Gorgonzola, queso fresco – good, great, better!
 
So now Gutter, and now Fodder,
Down the street I’m prone to totter.
Gutter sweep me down the roadway
And please, fodder, I’m all stuffed so go away!
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

It’s All Gouda

 
A while back I mentioned my battle with the bulge. I’m happy to say that my exercise regimen of weekly karate lessons and extra time running on the hamster wheel each day has helped me shed those extra pounds, so I’m back to my normal weight. (Starting on some flea medicine helped, too: you get enough of those itchy buggers together, and they can really add some mass!)
 
Along with these changes came a hanging up of the consumption of my favorite dairy product, cheese. So now that I’m more of a flat rat than a fat rat, I’m squeak-a-liciously looking forward to adding this most splendid of all foods back into my diet! I think for my first meal I’ll start out with a cheese plate. Then some cheese fondue would be nice, followed by a cheese soufflé, and top it all off with a lovely cheesecake at the end. Overboard? Prepawsterous! Nope: the only thing I’ll have to worry about is constipation tomorrow!
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Rat Snake

 
Oh, it’s unsqueakable! what’s taken up residence in my humans’ house lately! It glares at me through beady black eyes, barring my way from the kitchen, and it’s all I can do not to hide under my nestlet all day!
 
It’s not enough that they set out mousetraps to catch me. Not enough that they once tried to roast me over an open fire. No! They have to add insult to injury by bring home that – that rat snake!
 
Sure, you think it’s cute. Staring up at you with its plush pink-and-yellow head, its fuzzy little tail. Well, it mocks me from behind your back, the tag along its spine doing little to slow its speed as it slithers toward me.
 
How I long for the day the dog comes; he’ll attack his new chew toy with the ferocity of a raging Bubonic Plague! Then, when that rat snake is ratted and drenched in dog drool, I’ll emerge again from my nestlet, avoiding the mousetraps and the fire pit, and sneak back to the kitchen – where a fridge full of cheese awaits me!
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Pirat

 
Ahoy mateys, Buccaneer Bob here! ’Tis be International Talk Like a Pirate Day – make that International Squeak Like a Pirat Day, and rats everywhere be markin’ the occasion (an’ sometimes their territory) by loudly squeakin’ our favorite letter: Arrr! (You know, Arrr = R, for Rat.)
 
We rodents have a long history o’ farin’ the fair seas, though the seas do be dark, ’cause they’re in the sewers. Things can get particularly pawful when the weather be a-brewin’, which happens when the city above has a gully-washer o’ rain an’ it rushes down the grates. When the seas – er, sewer waters – be rough, it’s all paws on deck until the hatches be battened down. And dare not a crewrat fall into the drink, because as you know, dead rats squeak no tails!
 
Squeak Like a Pirat Day be pawsitively piratical, if you ask me, and though remembrin’ some o’ our pirats’ scurvy past be shiv’rin’ me whiskers, it’s easy sailin’ these days. So hoist the sails, mates, and full scuttle ahead!
 
Fair winds to ye,
Bob

Rodentical Cousins

 
Having family over is always a blast for us in the Rat hovel. This week my cousin, Rob, dropped by, and while we did have a pawsome visit, there emerged a bit of a problem: apparently it’s hard to tell the difference between the two of us.
 
It’s not the first time we’ve been squeaked that. Though we hail from separate litters, we do share a birthday. We were also born in a laboratory from an inbred rat strain, so most of our relatives are nearly rodentical.
 
It seems as though my cousin and I share particular similarity, which might be why we were named Bob and Rob. We once had a guest appearance on The Patty Duke Show in which Rob was calm Cathy’s pet and I belonged to the more ratical Patty; it seems I’ve got a bit of a wild streak in me. I still maintain the differences between us, though; after all, he has whiskers and I’m clean-shaven!
 
But whether people see us as the same or not, he and I still have a rat-tastic flealationship. So “paws up,” I squeak, to Bob the Rat and Rob the Rat, the most rodentical cousins of all!
 
Keepinʼ it squeak,
Bob

Easy Cheesy

 
Labor Day weekend has arrived, that one last hurrah of summer when we pull out the barbeque grills in earnest, practice our final swan dives of the season, and – goodie – use the last of that sticky, icky mosquito spray.
 
This holiday was created specifically so that we might take a rest from our work, and I have my own plans for letting my fur hang loose this weekend. For one thing, I’ll forgo styling it in my typical rat-tail. (From what I’ve been squeaked, rat-tails and mullets went out of style about 68 rodent generations ago, anyway.) For another, I’ll grant myself a break from my daily run on the hamster wheel, and instead use that time to take a much-desired rat nap. (I can feel that comfy nestlet cushion now.)
 
Besides resting, some use the pawliday as a time to play. In fact, Ratlanta, Georgia, the city I call “hovel,” is hosting a multitude of events this weekend, from the NASCAR race at Ratlanta Motor Speedway in Hampton to Dragon*Con in the heart of downtown itself. (I hope the Ratman comics are well represented.) All of this activity is squeaktacious, but for me, the best thing to do on this Labor Day weekend is anything but.
 
So whether your pawliday calls for fun or forty winks, I hope yours is the best, paws down. Just do me one teensy favor while you’re hamming it up: make sure that isn’t Rack of Rat you’re slapping on the ’Que!
 
Keepinʼ it chill – er, squeak,
Bob

The Rodentist

 
Ouch. It always starts with that, anyway.
 
Recently I noticed a pain in my right incisor. It started with a dull ache while chewing through drywall and progressed to the point to where I couldn’t even nibble my way through soft cheeses like brie without my whiskers whimpering wildly! It just so happens that I have an aversion to anybody in the medical field (don’t get me started on the veterinarian), but when I noticed I could no longer even smile and squeak “cheese” for pictures without howling in pain, I knew I had no choice but to visit the rodentist.
 
He was nice enough, I suppose, and as is expected of a critter in his vocation, his incisors were perfectly straight and sparkling white. I found it quite unpleasant, however, when he put his paws in my mouth and started scratching around. Every time one of his claws hit my sore tooth I squealed in agony, and was all I could do not to scuttle out of his office burrow right then and there!
 
Thankfully it didn’t take him long to make a diagnosis, and he proceeded to squeak me all about cavities and the importance of gnawing to keep my incisors trimmed. He admonished me for not brushing my teeth after eating cheesecake, and nearly laughed his whiskers off when I requested that the filling he put in be made of Parmesan. (What? It’s a hard cheese!) In the end I ended up with the standard composite resin filling and a new toothbrush to make my chompers as pearly white as those of my toothy caretaker’s. I also left with a warning: care for my teeth, the rodentist squeaked, or I’ll wind up chomping cheesecake with dentures!
 
Keepinʼ it squeak,
Bob

How Dry I Am

 
This summer the weather in my hometown of Ratlanta, Georgia has been quite fleadiculous, starting with unsqueakable heat followed by daily torrential downpours that have left me so waterlogged I’ve felt like a drowned rat. I’ve been up to my muzzle in rainwater, so last week I decided to shake the droplets off my whiskers and scuttle to someplace warm and dry.
 
Yuma, Arizona seemed like a great place to go, as it’s been noted by the Guinness Book of World Records as the sunniest place on earth. So Saturday I jumped aboard the first old Cheez-It box I found drifting under my local manhole, and floated my way from one municipal sewer system to another all the way out to the desert.
 
I arrived to conditions very dry indeed, as evidenced by the fact that, due to the sewer water having evaporated, I had to scuttle the last hundred miles on paw. When I arrived I found myself quite unprepared for another aspect of Yuma weather: I, in my haste to seek out places with low humidity levels, failed to take note of the heat! With average August temperatures in excess of 105 degrees, Yuma did more than rival that which I’d sought to escape in my hometown – it blew it out of the water! (Literally. That’s why Ratlanta is so wet: the water hasn’t been blown out yet.)
 
Sure, it was dry heat, but 105 degrees is still 105 degrees, and I was certainly way over my muzzle in what I could handle. My rubber rat fur had nearly melted off by the time I found a cactus to take shade under, and the lack of said fur, combined with the oppressively hot Yuma sun, left me with a vicious sunburn, making me a very crispy critter indeed. Thankfully I was able to chew through that cactus’s wall with my sharp incisors to reach the reservoir of water within. Swimming in it was pawsome, but steam did waft off my hot flesh as I ratty-paddled about. (S’alright: my own personal sauna!) So although I find myself once again up to my muzzle in rainwater, I’m back home now, much preferring the rains of Ratlanta to the dryness of the American Southwest! (No offense intended to my desert-dwelling kangaroo rat brethren.)
 
If you find yourself in waterlogged weather conditions this summer, do your best to shake the droplets off your own whiskers and keep splashing through those puddles, or if your blood’s a-boilin’ in the flealentless heat, borrow some incisors from a fellow rat and chew through a cactus wall. All of us can remember that, soon enough, Mother Nature will change her finicky mind, and we’ll be freezing our scaly tails off!
 
Keepinʼ it squeak,
Bob

Native Squeaker

 
Right now, as we squeak, Britain is hosting the XXX Olympic Games. People – and rodents – from around the globe have converged on London’s city streets (and, er, sewers) to celebrate camaraterie and engage in friendly competition. Along with this comes quite a confusion of dialect, and just as you humans can’t understand foreign languages, we rats, as crazy as it sounds, can’t distinguish foreign squeaks.
 
For example, who knows the squeak for cheese in Chinese? Who’s able to order sludge in Swahili? It’s been fleadiculously confusing beneath these London city streets!
 
What we need is a linguistic cheese wiz. A rat who knows every squeak in the world, who can translate in any tongue, any language, even with paws (because some of the rodent visitors are deaf) – indeed, a Native Squeaker!
 
Well, with more than 200 countries represented at these Olympic Games it’s unlikely we’ll find a critter capable of knowing everyone’s squeaks. Hmm … solution #2: chew through the humans’ translation cables, rewire them for rat lingo, and string ’em through the sewers along the London Underground – Brits are afraid to go underneath there anyway!
 
Keepinʼ it squeak,
Bob

Karate

Recently I noticed my ratty figure has grown a bit more round than I would like, so I aspired to shed the extra poundage by improving my diet – i.e., cutting out the cheese. (Oh, how pawful.) Along with this weight loss goal I decided to better my fitness, and naturally chose the only exercise regimen appropriate for rodents: karate. (I mean hey, it worked for Splinter in the Ninja Turtles, right?)
 
Yesterday I competed in an international karate tournament that just happened to be held close to my hometown of Ratlanta, Georgia. It was intimidating competing against rodents from all over the globe – jerboas from Europe, capybaras from South America, even African pygmy mice – but I did my rat-tastic best. (Going paw-to-paw with the capybaras was particularly daunting, especially in sparring (light-contact fighting), as some of those critters can weigh up to 200 pounds! Of course, the weight I recently put on did partially make up for things.)
 
My karate instructor wasnʼt thrilled by the fact that in just a week since starting Iʼd managed to chew halfway through my white belt (what can I squeak? no cheese = hungry = eat everything in sight), but I still had enough fabric left over to wrap around my fat rat waist. (I did happen to notice that some of the other rodents at the tournament had supplemented their diet with belt cloth as well.) I ended up placing first in forms and weapons (not bad for just a weekʼs training), but the capybaras swept board breaking, and – surprisingly – the pygmy mice took sparring: turns out that due to their small size they're squeaktacular at slipping up underneath their oppawnentsʼ appendages and scoring points! Needless to squeak, even though I know all about dark alleys (I am a rat, after all), I don't want to meet one of those little guys down one.
 
So I plan to continue my karate training, hoping that one day my chewed-up belt will be the color of my rubber rat fur; you can call me “Black-Belt Bob” then. In the meantime Iʼll make sure to scuttle carefully down the back alleys – and apologize to the humans about the large number of introduced rodent species now present in Ratlanta.
 
Keepinʼ it squeak,
Bob

Dairy in the Derriere

 
In recent weeks I’ve happened to make an occasional glance at my frame when passing by mirrors in the house of my human family, and I’ve noticed a bit of a pooch around the flanks of my hindquarters. That disturbs me: gaining weight is quite unusual for a rubber rat made from a pre-manufactured mold, but somehow, it seems, that’s just what it is I’ve done.
 
Now, in the past I’ve kept healthy by running on the hamster wheel for 30 minutes every day and restricting my diet to the lower-fat cheeses, but after the pawlidays last year I guess I just decided to relax and let my fur down a bit. Er, a little too much, perhaps, because now when I crawl onto the bathroom scale, my beady red rat eyes see several more pounds than there were in the past.
 
Maybe it was the Muenster. Perhaps the Parmesan. Or a likely culprit could have been the Colby-Jack; it’s one of the fattiest cheeses there is! My cheesy consumption has put me to shame. If I keep scuttling down this road I’ll end up as chubby as my corpulent rat pal Gus, and that’s not Gouda!
 
So now I’m making a plan to shed this weight (and maybe a little fur, too, while I'm at it: could help with an ounce or two). I’ll be sure to grease up the hamster wheel, keep healthy seeds and nuts on hand – and hide the cheese. (Oh, rats.)
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Flealentless Heat

 
For days Ratlanta has been trapped in the vice grip of an unsqueakable heat wave, finally setting an all-time record high of 106 degrees yesterday afternoon. It was so hot, in fact, that I decided to fry an egg on the proverbial rock – and nearly melted my rubber fur off in the process!
 
After almost becoming the makings of a new tire, I decided to find some ways to keep cool. First I took a stroll down into the sewer, thinking that a location that never sees the sun must surely be a cool place to be. But alas: the waters trickling down from the city streets above had been scalded by the reflected heat of the black asphalt, and turned out to be hotter than that egg-fried rock!
 
Then I decided to sneak into the fridge at a house nearby, capitalizing on the pawportunity to nip a snip of cheese while I was there. But when I was discovered in the bottom of the icebox, crouching with my snack between the salami and leftover green beans, I worked up such a sweat dodging the broom that lady was trying to whack me with that it undid all the good of my cool-down!
 
Finally, in a last-ditch effort to find some relief from this fleadiculous hot weather, I went for broke and paid a visit to my friend John, a naked mole rat who lives nearby. Because John resides permanently underground, his need for fur is negated – as is his need to drop his drawers when using the bathroom (hence his name). And though I find my ratty friend’s clawdacity to scuttle around in the buff more than a tad disturbing, at that point I was out of pawptions!
 
So while I spend the next few days chilling in the underground nude beach, I hope you can find ways to keep cool in this flealentless heat. And if you do have to go outside, remember to wear a hat – you don’t want your whiskers singed!
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

The Rat Is Back

 
Time to shine my incisors and fluff up my fur: after my long silence it’s great to squeak out again! The human who translates my rat squeaks into English for me is finally on the mend, and she’s just as happy to be back in blog-writing action as I am.
 
While I was stopping to smell the cheese, I got the pawportunity to notice some things that in my busy, frenzied world I don’t normally have the chance to pay rattention to. Things like how the water streams down in slime-filled rivulets on the sewer walls after a light rainfall. Or how lightning bugs, which are now in season, make my belly glow when I eat them. And even how my handsome rat nose sticks out just a tad – but it still adds to my character.
 
Nonetheless, this humble rat is thrilled to be back, because as I mentioned in my last blog, I’ve always got something to squeak about. So brush off your whiskers and go get you some cheese – the rat-tastic adventure is back on track!
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Silent Squeaks

 
Hi everyone! Great to squeak at you again!
 
You may have noticed that my weekly blog hasn’t been posting so “weekly” as of late. That’s because the human who translates my rat squeaks into English has unfortunately been under the weather for a while (although the weather in Ratlanta is currently sunny and beautiful, but HOT – I nearly melted in my rubber rat fur when I scuttled outside the other day!). Sadly she’s still feeling pretty pawful, so it may be a little while yet before I’m able to share what’s on my ratty mind with the rest of the world. Do know, however, that as soon as she feels better, I’ll be back posting blogs, because – as you well know – I always have something to squeak about!
 
Keepin’ it squeak (just to myself for now),
Bob

Fleaster

 
Happy Fleaster, everyone! What a squeaktacular day!
 
All of us in the Rat hovel were up a bit earlier than we’d be on a typical Sunday morning giving our fur a little extra grooming before scuttling off to church, because just like you humans, we like to make sure we’re dressed our best on this day, one of the most sacred of the year. And despite the name “Fleaster,” we made sure our fur was free from the itchy little buggers.
 
Church service was wonderful as we all – humans and rodents together – celebrated the resurrection of the Christ, and as the people partook of their communion, our pastor, who is quietly quite fond of us little guys, made sure to spare some unleavened bread crumbs and grape juice so that we could honor Jesus in our own way.
 
The pups weren’t disappointed this morning before church either, as overnight the Easter Rattit had left goodies and treats in our nestlets. He even brought my favorite – blue Easter eggs – which are filled to the brim with bleu cheese.
 
I hope this Fleaster has been your happiest yet, that you’ve been able to spend it with family and feasting, and, if you celebrate the religious holiday, that it’s been a time for you to rejoice and express your gratitude to God. And despite the funny name, I hope your fur has been well groomed and flea-free!
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Pawful Pollen

 
Achoo! Oh, how my little rat nose is so clogged!
 
This week Ratlanta saw its highest pollen counts in years, with the tiny granules causing it to soar to 8,164 on Monday, thereby shattering the longstanding record of 6,013 set back in April of 1999. Then the next day we busted even that record by more than a thousand points, topping out at 9,369. With counts of 5,174 and 4,379 on the days after that, and Friday’s merciful rain washing out the muck but still keeping things up at 1,009, it’s safe to say that this week’s been the most miserable that local allergy sufferers have experienced – ever. Including one little rat.
 
With the insidious imps invading the air I’ve been forced to make my nestlet out of tissues rather than the typical cotton bedding, and I can distinctly say it’s not nearly as comfortable. The pollen’s also been percolating my fur so that I’ve begun to look more tan than black, and this stuff is itchier than fleas! In fact I feel so terrible that I’ve been pondering going to visit the veterinarian to see if he has any allergy medicine made in rat dosages. And as you might remember from one of my previous blogs, I’ve got to be in some serious misery to overcome my fear of the vet!
 
On a sunny note, these record-setting pollen counts have inspired me to bring out my artistic side: if you feel so inclined, please sniff out the picture album I made on my “Muzzlebook” page (www.facebook.com/bobtherat); just like this blog, it’s entitled Pawful Pollen. (I hope sniffing through it doesn’t clog your muzzle!) In the meantime I’ll stay hunkered down in my tissue nestlet, looking forward to the day when pollen season ends and ragweed season begins, because at least you can wet rags, right?
 
Keepin’ it squeak (with a hankie in paw),
Bob

Squeaky Green

 
Greetings to ya on this bonny blue Raturday afternoon! ’Tis St. Ratrick’s Day today, don’t ya know, and the sewers do be flowin’ with many a pint o’ Guinness to celebrate the holiday.
 
Today it be favorable for everyone to be wearin’ the green, which isn’t a problem for the blue jays: all they’ve got to do is go a-flyin’ around and have the tree pollen land on ’em to be properly dressed! Meanwhile us rats be contentin’ ourselves to get our green on by just a-nibblin’ on some blue cheese – that way when we smile our incisors will be green, providin’ we’re a-scamperin’ about outside in the pollen as well. O’ course the pollen do have a tendency to clog our wee ratty airways – in which case it’s a good idea for us to be gettin’ back to the sewers and takin’ a swig o’ that Guiness to wash everythin’ out.
 
Me human family sure’n be happy about the holiday: their last name be McGill, so it’s a good reminder to them o’ their Irish forebears. I guess then, since we be part of the same family, that I should be remembrin’ me Irish fore-rats, right? Well, we’ll go with that for the sake o’ bein’, anyway. (O’ course, I might be squeakin’ a bit o’ blarney.) The twins’ Irish be comin’ from both sides o’ the family, but since Big Burly Pop be taller than 6’4” and only one o’ the girls has topped the 5-foot mark (and barely squeaked it out at that), he makes it a point to remind ’em that they must be descended from leprechauns through their ma. (When he does this, they silently wish a potato blight on him.)
 
On that note, I’ll be a-scuttlin’ along … me family’s already tucked into the colcannon and I want to make sure they be leave a bit fer me. I hope ye find ya yer pot o’ gold at the end of a rainbow today, and if you do get down to the sewers to take a swig o’ everybody’s favorite Irish stout, make sure ye’ve got a designated scamperer to scuttle you home!
 
Keepin’ it squeaky green,
Bob

Rat Tuesday

 
A squeaktacious greeting to you from down here in The Big Cheesy on this Rat Tuesday! The party’s been going strong for days, and as the celebration abounds up on Bourbon Street, we rats are scratching it up down here in the sewers, some catching that occasional trickle of bourbon from above.
 
Both the bourbon and nearby Lake Ponchratrain are facilitating our “Ratty Gras” floats as they can just float along the pipes with ease, and the “shrews” hosting the parade certainly aren’t being stingy this year on throwing out throws. (This year’s most sought-after throws are necklaces stringed with cheese balls, and unfortunately more than one of the dames have bared their teats in order to procure these coveted trinkets. The more teats they show the more necklaces they get, and since the typical female rat can have up to eight, some of them are coming away feeling worry-free as they’ll have plenty to snack on over the next few days. But I find this whole practice rather immodest, to squeak you the truth.)
 
Cheese balls aside, the celebration hasn’t been short on vittles. This morning my good rat pal, Gus, and I consumed the better part of a King cheesecake, but Gus decided he’d had enough when he ended up nearly swallowing the hidden plastic pup. The icing also dyed our incisors purple, green, and yellow, so now when we smile we look like half a pack of Skittles. It tasted squeak-a-licious, though!
 
I’m happy to squeak that New Orleans has recovered well from 2005’s Hurricane Ratrina, which is great for us as many of the locals are no longer forced to live in FEMA burrows. Thanks to our groundhog friend Punxsutawney Phil getting the squeakout that the hurricane was coming, most of my rat brethren made it to high ground well in advance of the storm. And though it was very destructive, the hurricane did give the city a boon in flushing out its sewer systems. In the intervening years the city has seen a great rebound, and this Rat Tuesday is certainly one of the most rat-tastic yet!
 
So before Lake Ponchratrain floods us out and the season of Lent begins, I’ll squeak you adieu (after all, New Orleans is a French city) and scoot my rat rump back to the party, and remind you to let the good times – and the cheese balls – roll!
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob