Pawld Lang Syne

Two Thousand Fourteen has come to an end,

So it’s time for me to continue a trend.

 

A big blog I write to give you some cheer

That recaps all blogs I wrote through the year.

 

This year started cold; then I took a tour

Through churches and restaurants, and even the sewer.

 

I played games of strength and strategy too;

I sampled new foods, became fond of fondue.

 

I learned of new cultures among rats and mice,

And found that mutations are often quite nice.

 

My last half of the year: through much work I did slog,

That often did keep me away from the blog.

 

I still got to see a movie or so,

And tossed around paw-balls, although I can’t throw.

 

Listening to music was big on my list;

I loved when awards went to pawsome artists.

 

Now seasons have passed; Twenty Fifteen awaits,

And I hope there will be lots of cheese on my plates.

 

And on your plates as well – may they always be filled,

May your new year be grand and your life be fulfilled.

 
Blessings in the new year,
Bob

Furever Grateful

 
 
Rat-tastic greetings, friends and family. I’ve been silent on the blog recently because the human who translates my rat squeaks into English has been incredibly busy with school and a new job. She’s graduating in Fleacember, so I hope to scratch out some more blogs once she’s done.
 
My tradition with Thanksgiving blogs is to list all the things for which I’m thankful. While I’m always happy to remember how blessed I am that rat meat is not as popular as turkey on the American Thanksgiving menu, this year I’ve decided to keep it simple. In a harried life, I’ve found that the best things are the things that stick closest, like family. You already know Big Burly Pop, Mom, and the twins from my past blogs, and last Christmouse I gave them all a blog unto themselves. I want to fleaiterate how rat-tastically grateful that whatever life brings, they will furever be my family. I’m grateful, too, for my furever fur family, complete with wife Bobette the Mouse, our starchy Rats + Mice = Rice octuplet offspring, and rodentical cousin Rob the Rat, and of course my best friends Gus and Slim.
 
Finally, I’m grateful for you, for reading my scratchings on the Web. No matter what your life brings or how hurried – make that furried – things get, I hope you can refresh yourself in the fondness and comfort of loved ones. Happy Thanksgiving to you now and always, and may we all be furever grateful.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Pawtumn

 
 
Some time ago, I blogged about a crystalline-blue day. At long last Ratlanta has returned to those cool blue days, and I couldn’t be more gratuitous! I woke up this morning and crawled out of my hovel only to catch a bit of nip to my rat nose – my fur hasn’t grown in for the winter yet. (Not that it changes much with the seasons – it is, after all, made of rubber – but I’m sure you know what I mean.)
 
I sympathize greatly with all those who have been forced to spend this squeaktacular day indoors. Yikes – I’d rather be in the company of the family cat! The human who translates my rat squeaks into English for this blog is one such pitiful creature, so if you too spent the day inside, you’re not alone.
 
I hope you get the pawportunity to experience pawtumn in its glory days. Not only are the cool days perfect for enjoying a little hot cheese fondue, it’s also the season of my favorite pawliday! (No need to be a scaredy rat about that, though.) May this pawtumn – and every season – be your most rat-tastic yet.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Pentapawnix

 
 
I’m a super-excited rat because my favorite paw cappella group, Pentapawnix, is releasing their third album this Tuesday! You might remember me mentioning the group this past January when they took home their first Hammy award. After touring North America and Europe this summer (smartly avoiding sites of the Bubonic Plague) they’ve been hard at work in the studio, and I can hardly wait to crank up the volume on PTX Volume Flea in two days!
 
Pentapawnix has been releasing teaser videos on their ChewTube and Muzzlebook pages over the past week, and I haven’t been this amped up since our neighborhood cheesemonger moved in next door! With rat-tastic covers like Dirty Bandit’s “Rather Flea” and squeaktacular originals including “Sniff Through” on the album, there’s truly something to scratch every musical itch. And don’t forget to muzzle your way into the future: they’ll release a brand new Christmouse album in October!
 
Now if only I could ignore the fact that two of the group’s members have adopted a sphinx cat, I’d be in paramice!
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Black and Red

 
 
Today in the Dutch city of Breda, thousands are wrapping up their ninth annual celebration of Redhead Days, an international three-day gathering of redheads. My human caretaker, the one who translates my rat squeaks into English for this blog, is all excited because, like less than five percent of the population worldwide, she has a copper top! Although she was not able to make a trip to Breda this year she dreams of going someday, and it’s all she’s been talking about for the last two weeks.
 
As the only redhead in her family, she says she feels lonely and wants to be in the company of people who look like her. I admit, I have a hard time identifying with her: black rats like me are very common, and I’ve never had trouble finding members of my species to mingle with.
 
To help her feel better, I decided to mark my own rat-tastic version of Redhead Days by undergoing a new fur-do. What do you think of it? I will squeak that my new strawberry locks have attracted a lot more rattention than my black fur ever did, confirming something I suspect my human has known her whole life: brunettes may get noticed, but redheads are never forgotten.
 
Ratty Redhead Days,
Bob
 
[Photo courtesy http://ratvarieties.com/type/silver-fawn/]

Working My Tail Off

 
 
Yikes, it’s been a few shakes of a rat’s tail since my last post! I’ve missed scratching out my hovel on the Internet, and I miss all of you, my blog followers, as well. In early June business really picked up at Sludge-Be-Gone – it seems that the anti-dairy movement really took hold here in Ratlanta, and people have been more, ahem, regular than normal – and I moved to working nights and weekends in addition to days to keep up with sewer-cleaning demand. The good news is that the blockage under 14th street is well under control, but the long nights crawling through muck (which is one thing we rats do best) have often left me too tired to tend Bob’s Blogs.
 
Could it be squeaked I’ve had a problem with work–life balance? Well, let me put it this way: Yesterday I went to battle that blockage and leaped up onto a ledge, only to find myself toppling forward into a muzzle full of filth. I looked behind me, and instead of the long black streak I so love that always keeps me on an even keel, I saw a nubby little stump. Wouldn’t you know it? My tail had fallen clean off! I’m not ready to be a Manx yet; not now, not ever! Too much a reminder of my feline nemesis. Good thing my tail is made of rubber: I was able to do a quick sealing job that should heal up in about a week. Better yet, we Americans celebrate Labor Day tomorrow, and I am definitely taking the pawportunity to engage in a little flealaxation! A few frozen cheesecake bites, perhaps a small margarata to let my fur down – and get my tail to healing.
 
I’m grateful that I can afford to pay my bills, but there’s much to be said for taking care of oneself first. I hope you put yourself first in your life, and even though I know you humans lack tails to begin with, I encourage you to keep what’s there well in place! May this weekend – and every weekend – be a time for you to recharge, and if you do find yourself with parts missing, I have some rubber sealant I’ll be happy to lend you.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Bob-B-Que

 
  
It’s that time of year again – summer time! Fleamorial Day has passed, the pups are out of school, and everyone’s spending extra time in the cool, dark sewers, trying to escape the prepawsterous heat.
  

For my human family, summer means it’s also time to fire up the grill. Big Burly Pop has been presiding over the coals for several weeks already, and with the sizzling season in full swing he’s looking to stretch his culinary boundaries. Unfurtunately, for me that means nothing good – unlike most humans, he’s not averse to rat meat! I still remember the time he roasted me over a camp fire. The twins saved me then, but lately Pop’s gone to cooking while the girls are still at work. Unsqueakable!
  

Looks like I may have to keep my beady-red rat eyes out for Pop throughout the rest of grilling season. I’ll also have to send the squeak-out to my rodent friends to take it easy on staying chill in the sewers. After all, you know what goes best with Bob-B-Que, right? You guessed it: mice cream.
  

Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Critter Fritters

 

My neighbors and I, humans and rodents alike, are super excited right now, because just down the street (or down the sewer pipe, depending on your perspective) a new donut shop recently opened! Aboveground, cars have been backing up the parking lot and spilling into the surrounding streets for blocks, while we under-dwellers deal with our own, er, “blockages” down below as everyone has clamored to get their hands (or paws) on a fresh, piping hot, sugar-glazed donut.
 
I got to visit the shop early this morning, before many humans had the chance to rise (and while many rodents were snuggling down to bed). I was in donut heaven! The vision in my beady red eyes was too blurry to read the menu, but my muzzle told me all I needed to know: I was surrounded by apple fritters, chocolate-drizzled donuts, cream-filled donuts, and donuts with no nuts and sprinkles and cheese! For yes, while the humans all came to lust at the sugar glaze waterfall and salivate voraciously under the glow of the “Hot Donuts Now Available” sign, I had the rack of cheese Danishes all to myself. I was so content that I even felt bold enough to wash them down with coffee – a substance I haven’t touched since a pawful episode of caffeine overload six months ago.
 
I hope you have the pleasure of an event as rat-tastic as the installation of a new donut shop happen to you soon. Something that draws the community together and backs cars into the streets for blocks – but that hopefully does not incur any blockages farther below, if you know what I mean!
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Mexican Rat Dance

 

Hola! Happy Squeako de Mayo!
 
Today my Mexican rat brethren celebrate their heritage. People and rodents all over are taking to the streets in revelry. You can hear their shrieks for miles – although I hope some of those human shrieks aren’t coming out of fear as a rat scuttles across their path.
 
My own human family doesn’t have any salsa running through their blood (they’re more of Irish descent), but they still plan to observe the pawliday in their own way – gastronomically – with some steak-and-chicken fajitas. And thankfully, they’re giving me no small amount of queso fresco on the side!
 
Squeako de Mayo pestivities in the rodent realm wouldn’t be complete without the traditional Mexican Rat Dance, in which we all hold paws and scuttle around a sombrero. Male rats nuzzle the muzzles of their dames and afterward we all indulge in our favorite Mexican food: furritos!
 
Whether or not you hail from this land of sun and beauty, I hope you get the chance to observe the pawliday in your own way. So grab your sombrero, nuzzle some muzzles, and don’t forget the furriots and fresco!
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Westmuenster Abbey

Happy Fleaster, everyone!
 
In honor of the pawliday, I recently took my family on a trip to England’s Westmuenster Abbey. Traveling “Across the Pawnd” was no problem – after all, Ratlanta’s sewers do eventually empty into the ocean. We did make a stop at the Mid-Ratlantic Ridge along the way, though: as one of the world’s major tectonic plates, it has some pretty pawsome cheese restaurants.
 
My wife, Bobette, and I enjoyed meeting the Archbishop of Canterburrow, while the pups had fun playing with the Benedictine minks. All of us liked viewing the Westmuenster Ratable, the oldest panel painting alterpiece in Bratain, because rodents of the past are well known to have left cheese crumbs on the table.
 
Fleaster service at the Westmuenster is always very pawpular, drawing locals, like the British royal family, as well as overfleas tourists, like me. There’s just something about taking in a major pawliday at a huge cafleadral that makes things seem extra grand, although I prefer to spend most pawlidays in my humble little burrow. Still, the archdiofleas made my family and me feel right at hovel in Bratain’s favorite cheesy church.
 
So happy fleaster! I hope yours is flea-free and filled with the wonder of why we really celebrate – Christ’s resurrection. And do remember, if you happen to travel Across the Pawnd on a future pawliday, there are still a few left-over cheese crumbs on the Ratable.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Catching Fur

 
 
My humans are fans of The Hunger Games book series. Two of the books have been made into movies with the third on the way, and the humans have been all excited because the second movie, Catching Fire, recently came out on video.
 
It’s pretty fleatrical, if you ask me! Set in a future in which most of the country starves while a select few live with pawmp and circumstance, the main character, Ratniss, has to fight for her life and that of her friend/lover, Fleata, in a terrible arena-style grudge match. Appawling indeed.
 
I had nightmares for days after watching it – not about what happened in the arena, but about the family cat, Buttercup. That creature was vicious! Sure, he had a cameo for only five seconds, but his hiss still echoes in my ears. In my dreams I saw myself scurrying around the arena, Buttercup hot on my heels. And just as he was about to sink his claws into me I shook awake, never knowing if he was successful at catching fur.
 
These pawful dreams finally stopped when I realized I already know what happens to Buttercup in the third book and movie. Is Buttercup fine? Yes. But as to whether he gets declawed, I’ll leave that for you to discover yourself.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Rats and Dawgs

 
 
This week I took a trip to Athens, hovel – er, home – to the University of Georgia and their mascot, the Bulldogs. Better known to its fans as the Dawgs. Here in the Deep South, where I live, folks take the sport of pawball very seriously. So when I scurried my way into Sanford Stadium, I couldn’t help but feel I was scuttling onto holy ground.
 
I got to squeak hello to Uga, the live mascot. I gave him a muzzle nuzzle, and he responded with a slobbery lick! He was very pawspitable, especially when he chased away a few stray cats who were eyeing me as if I was made of ratnip. ’Tis never impressive to one’s guests when you end up the dinner of their enemy.
 
In fact, I have Uga to thank for my safe return back to Ratlanta. While I was visiting UGA, I came upon some other rats who thought I was a fan of their main rivals, Georgia Tech, considering I live in the same city Tech calls hovel. They looked like they were ready to feed me to those stray cats when Uga thankfully put his dogged paw down.
 
“Bob can’t be a Tech fan,” he barked to the rats. “He’s displaying our colors!” Sure enough, my black rubber fur and beady-red rat eyes do indeed match UGA’s colors. So thanks to one bullish bulldog who refused to back down for a guest, I stayed out of the dog-hovel.
 
That’s certainly enough for me to become a fan. Go Dawgs!
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Pi Day

 
 

Break out your forks and your fractions, your pastries and your protractors – it’s Pi Day!

 
Yes, Pi Day. Today, 3/14, at 1:59:26 a.m. and p.m., we crossed twice the threshold of pi, a number signified by the Greek symbol π that is equivalent to 3.1415926535897932 (etc.). It goes on forever! And so too, I think, should pie.
 
People worldwide celebrated the day with their favorite baked concoction. Some went for the savory with chicken pot pie; others preferred sweet, like cherry or peach. (The latter is definitely a favorite where I live in Ratlanta, Georgia, because Georgia is the Peach State!)
 
All those pies were all right, but their filling would be a good topping on my favorite pie, cheesecake. That’s right! Don’t you know? Cheesecake isn’t a cake, it’s pie. Custard pie, to be precise. (Just ask celebrity chef Alton Brown!) And a mighty fine custard at that.

   
So today, 3/14, at 1:59:26 (ad nauseam) a.m. and p.m., I pulled out my trusty custard pie and sunk my incisors right in. And I plan to do so again tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Because while doing math repeatedly is downright pawful, I’ll ponder the perfection of π any day.

 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Fond of Fondue

  

 
It’s no secret that I’m pawfully fond of food, and I’ve squeaked of some of my fine dining experiences in the past. Recently I took my squeaktacious spouse, Bobette the Mouse, on a romantic rodent date to an upscale fondue restaurant. Now, you might be concerned about rats scuttling around places humans dine. Let me assure you: we rodents are more concerned about our tails accidentally falling into a fondue pot of sizzling oil. To be safe for all parties, I made reservations ahead of time for our own little corner in the back—close to the scullery, of course, wherein we might find some fallen scraps.
 
The best thing about fondue restaurants is that most begin the meal with a cheese fondue pot. This was certainly the case at our restaurant, but we made some ratty alterations to the menu. While you humans enjoy dipping foods like bread and vegetables into your cheese fondues, Bobette and I enjoyed things like old banana peels, some little chunks of drywall, and, for health purposes, the occasional seed or nut. Our second course differed too: instead of the meats and sizzling broth or oil you bipeds consume, our pot was filled with—you guessed it—more cheese. And for dessert, of course we had the chocolate cheesecake fondue with rancid cherries for dipping.
 
One of the challenges of many fondue restaurants, as any of you who have been to one likely knows, is that they can cost a pretty cheese crumb. But when you have someone special in your life like I do, whether your relationship is romantic or not, some events are worth saving up for. So before we departed, I spent a few more crumbs to have the staff squeak Bobette a special serenade song I scratched out for the occasion. It went a little something like this:
 
The four types of cheese came out steamy and hot
As we both crouched around our nice big fondue pot.
 
The garbage was great and the cherries so sweet
That it made us both squeak, “This tops all-you-can-eat.”
 
I saved up my crumbs so we’d come to this place,
Bow our snouts to the ground and o’er cheese squeak God’s grace.
 
The fondue, of course, was as good as can be
The cheddar, the Swiss, Colby-Jack, and the brie.
 
Life is grand on a night on the town with your spouse
Whether she (or wh’er he) is a human or mouse.
 
She is sure worth to me a spare cheese crumb or two,
’Cause I’m fond of my wife and I’m fond of fondue.
  

Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Cheesy Chess

 
Have you ever played chess? It’s quite a pawpular game. Chess has been around for centuries, and there are even variants: Star Trek has three-dimensional chess, Harry Potter has Wizard’s Chess, and we rats? You guessed it: Cheesy Chess. It’s a game both fun and tasty, because the chess pieces are made of cheese!
 
To start out, pieces are carved from different-color cheeses; moldy ones, like bleu or Roquefort, are often chosen for the black pieces, and pale cheeses like parmesan make up the white. In the past, pieces were contrasted by hardness or softness rather than color, but rats of yore found the soft cheeses hard to carve – a process done with our sharp incisors (mmm … tasty) – and they also kept oozing all over the cheese – er, chess – board.
 
I’ll admit: I’m not much of a Cheesy Chess player. I’ve tended toward other hobbies – like keeping my fur well groomed – rather than taking up the sport, but I don’t mind taking in a good game. Recently the Cheesy Chess Championships were held in my hometown of Ratlanta. Many rodents spectated, but the event was also broadcast in audio via the sewer pipes: recent rains washed them out, providing a clear conduit for play-by-play squeaks to travel.
 
Unlike sporting events like pawball that use brawn to win the game, Cheesy Chess is very cerebral. And sure enough, this year’s Cheesy Chess Champion turned out to be none other than The Brain, very loudly cheered on by his not-so-cerebral pal Pinky. Brain won in the final round when his pawns checkmated the sire – for you see, in Cheesy Chess, the pawns are the most important.
 
If you’ve never tried your paw (or hand) at Cheesy Chess, I encourage you to do so! A squeak to the wise, however: playing the game can get expensive, as you have to buy a new set of pieces for each game. Because in Cheesy Chess, when a piece gets taken, it gets eaten!
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob
 

Photo credit (with modification): http://www.threadnz.com/uploads/images/Food/2010/cheeseboard%20chess.jpg
   

Mite Club

  
Pests. You humans have vermin. We rodents have fleas. But lately a critter’s come ’round that gets under my skin – literally! And that’s squeaking something indeed, as I’m made of rubber. I’m squeaking of nestlet mites, which have recently invaded the Rat burrow.
 
Imagine my daily plight, if you will. (And yes, I do mean “daily”: we rats are nocturnal and prefer to revel after hours.) Imagine returning from a night’s carousing, snuggling into the warm comfort of your bedding, about to nod off just as the sun’s morning rays break over the manhole of your sewer, when CHOMP! you’re awakened by an agonizing pain right between your shoulder blades, the most difficult spot to scratch.
 
After two longsuffering weeks of this, I finally had enough. I did some digging (with the help of some naked mole rat friends) and tracked those nasty nuisances to their Ratlanta headquarters in a condemned building, dubbed “Mite Club.” I sniffed out their leader, Mite Mayhem, and boy, did he make my muzzle cringe! Turns out Mayhem was responsible for the recent mite invasion, and like villains Ratlanta has faced before, he had plans for expansion. First on his list: the nestlets of my pups!
 
Now, I’m a very docile rat; generally, I wouldn’t harm a flea (unless it was biting me). But when it comes to my family and the city I call hovel, even this peaceful rodent is moved into action. I scuttled right up to Mayhem and challenged him to a rat-to-mite fight. The contest: Take on the mighty mite in a drywall chew-off. The stakes: If I won, he and his mangy miscreants had to move their mitey mischief elsewhere. If I lost, Mayhem and his mites would invade my nestlet permanently (though I made him guarantee they would leave my family alone) and I would have to publicly shame myself by announcing defeat on Muzzlebook. With a paw-to-claw shake I agreed to fight the mite.
 
Mayhem came out strong in the first round, gnawing right through the drywall of that abandoned building so that you could see the pipes corroding underneath. But I countered with my super-strong teeth, fortified from my recent visit to the rodentist. In round two that mite began to falter, as his jowls, used to carving through soft flesh alone, were unable to breach the stiffness of more drywall material. My incisors, however, which grow constantly (as I am a rodent) and are accustomed to biting through hard cheeses, cut through that wall quicker than a pair of mice can breed eight generations.
 
In the final round, I brought down the Mite Club in squeaktacular style. I scuttled all over the place, gnawing here, gnawing there, until I stepped back and took a look at my resolute ratty creation. Punched through that drywall for all to see was a sign reading “The Mites Met Their Match.”
 
Mayhem and his minions moved their mitey marshmallow selves right out of town, hanging their jowls in shame. And the notoriety of their loss spread throughout the pest community, as I posted a mite-mortifying post announcing their defeat. Because while what happens at Mite Club stays at Mite Club, what happens today is on Muzzlebook tomorrow.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Appaws

 
Tonight was a big night in the rodent realm: the Hammy Awards took place! That’s short for Hamster Howling Awards, created in the late 1950s to honor accomplished squeaking hamsters. Over the years more rodent species took part, and eventually the “Howling” was dropped because rodents make all kinds of noises when we squeak, not just howls. “Hammy” also came to stand for some of the fleadiculous performances that take place during the ceremony. We may all be rodents, but some of them are real hams – and it’s not just the guinea pigs.
 
Squeaking artists nationwide gathered in the sewers under Paws Angeles this evening. Everyone from Pawdonna to Black Plague Sabbath to Pawbin Thicke was there, whose squeak “Blurred Lines” was a scuttle-away hit with the vision-challenged rodent community last summer.
 
Hammy performances certainly lived up to their name, with Fleaoncé and Paw McCartney showing what rodentertainment is all about. But it was Reneé Fleaming who brought the burrow down, with a stirring – and very loud – operatic act. In fact, the humans hosting the Grammys at the Staples Center directly above us didn’t know what to make of the vibrating ground, as most California earthquakes aren’t accompanied by screeches.
 
Pawful performances aside, the artists were really there for the awards. Natalie Grant’s “Furricane” won in the Gospel category, Pink’s “Just Give Flea a Reason” took Best Scratch, and my favorite group, Pentapawnix, won the coveted award for paw cappella squeaking.
 
But far and away the biggest award went to the Kia Hamsters in their car commercial set to Dame Gaga’s tune “Appaws,” which is the latest hit in advertising. And I suppose it was fitting: after all, this is the Hamster Awards. Now as to whether Dame Gaga fulfilled the part of “Howling,” that’s up for debate.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Tourist Rattractions

 

I’ve often squeaked of my hometown, Ratlanta, located in the heart of America’s Deep South. If you’ve never visited, I encourage you to do so! It’s a squeaktacular place to be. And when you come, I recommend skipping the traditional bike and Segway and driving tours and just take a shortcut like we rats do – via the sewers.
 
Of course the sewers are the most efficient means of scuttling around! Our city is beyond well known for the fleadiculous traffic gridlock you humans endure, and odds are if you’re trying to get from Point A to Point B via the traditional routes, you’ll be squeak outta luck. Besides, with the record rainfall the city got last year that blockage under Fourth Street has been clear for months.
 
While you’re here there are a lot of great things to see. At least, I’m told they’re great to see: rats have poor eyesight and rely mostly on our muzzles to sense the world, and I like what I smell at these places. A trip to the Georgia Aquarium is pawsome, especially the dog shark tank, because they eat the catfish. Also sniff out the gold dome of the Georgia State capitol. Yes, it really is painted in gold mined from the North Georgia Mountains. I suggested they paint the dome with cheese, but melted roofs are no Gouda and Georgia summers do get very hot. Satisfy your rumbly tumbly with a wiener from the world’s oldest hot dog conveyer belt at the Varsity (you know how I like dogs); I recommend the cheese nachos as a side dish. And finally, end your day at my favorite rattraction: Underground Ratlanta. Any place that recognizes the pawsomeness of the rat-dwelling underworld is magnifleacent in my book. Besides, if you get there via my suggested route, you won’t even have to climb to get to street level!
 
I hope you do come to Ratlanta – as the name squeaks, it’s a rat-tastic place to be! And do please give consideration to a sewer tour, because if you don’t you’ll probably end up in that infamous traffic gridlock all day long.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Micicle

  

Holy moley! 2014 has started out with not just a squeak, but an outright screech! A polar vortex of cold air has swept down from Canada covering all but three of the pawntinental United States with some amount of snowfall, and causing a record low of 6°F in my hometown of Ratlanta, Georgia this morning.

 

I decided to make merry with the frigid temps and scuttle about outside, and even found to my delight that my humans’ fountain had frozen into my own personal ice skating rink! I reasoned that with my rat-tastic high metabolism I should be able to spend hours on the ice. Unfurtunately, I didn’t factor in my small size quickly losing body heat, and I found out very quickly that, in this freeze, the old adage “cold paws, warm heart” does not at all apply. Shiver me whiskers – it’s cold out there!

 

So while we wait for the day that “Holy moley” becomes “Holy smokes,” as was the case for our record-setting highs in 2012, I encourage you to stay inside snuggled in your nestlet, lest you become a frozen micicle – er, icicle – like I almost did!

 

Keepin’ it squeak,

Bob