Shoo Flea, Don’t Bother Me

 
In the recent advent of my case of those dastardly sand fleas, I got to thinking. (No small feat for a creature whose brain is smaller than a peanut. But I’m smarter than the average rat: I’ve even been to graduate school. More about that some other time.) It’s long been known amongst you humans that rats – or, more correctly, the fleas that make rats their home – were harborers of the Plague. You know the one: collectively over the years it’s been an amalgam (how’s that for a big word?!) of different diseases, known as the Black Death (not to be confused with my sleek and lustrous black fur), the Black Plague, and the Bubonic Plague. And although this scourge does indeed occasionally rear its ugly black head up now and then on certain parts of the globe, it’s thankfully now mostly considered a bad memory.
 
Well, my case of sand fleas from Margarataville is now gone; those critters didn’t hang around for long. (For whatever reason they find rubber fur unappealing.) So never fear: should our paths ever cross and you find it irresistible to kiss my cute, little rat nose (and a very handsome rat nose it is, if I do squeak so myself), I assuredly, thanks to my flea-repellent rubber fur, shall in no means pass the Plague or any other blight onto you. (How could I? I care for you too much, my faithful blog follower!) Until next week I bid you adieu, and hope that those fleas don’t come near you.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Rat Recovery

 
Ever notice how you always need a period of recovery when you get back from vacation? Well, this week I find myself in that boat. And while I know that rats are always the first to bail when a boat sinks, right now mine is floating just fine, so I think I’ll stay here a while longer. I’m still recovering from an unsqueakable case of sand fleas as well … like I said before, those little buggers are itchy. I’ll give you a better squeak next week. Until then, I’m going to indulge myself in a lovely rat nap, so please excuse me as I imagine the gentle ocean waves rocking me to sleep.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Margarataville

  
This week found me vacationing on the lovely shores of paradise, Panama City Beach, Florida. I spent a lot of time in the pool (being made of rubber, it’s helpful that I’m a great floater), and that was a squeaktacious way to escape from the stifling heat and humidity currently gripping the southeastern United States. I had plans to work on my tan, but thought that with my dark black rat fur I’d end up extra-crispy, which is a bad idea, particularly around some of the Asian take-out restaurants. I also got to spend some time in the ocean, and though I had some trouble getting out to the surf due to sinking into the soft sands and having many a battle with the indigenous sand fleas (itchy little buggers), nothing could deter me from spending some blissful days in the crystal-clear waters of the Gulf of Mexico.
 
While out there I also hooked up with some of the locals to scope out PC Beach’s night life. It’s a little-known fact amongst you humans that beneath your city streets lay sewers just teeming with excitement for us members of the order Rodentia. My favorite place to sniff around is a little hole-in-the-wall called Margarataville. Aside from a wide variety of drinks including Rum and Sewage, the Long Island Iced Flea, and Shrewdriver, they also serve an assortment of cheeses, such as provolone, Monterey jack, mozzarella, cheddar, and – my favorite – Muenster. My comrats also did some flirting with the lovely ladies of the mouse variety, but not me: I’m married. (I’ll tell you more about my family life in a later blog.) My ’hood rats were trying to impress the sweeties with their rat-tastic dance moves, and a few of the more handsome ones (those with great-looking rat noses, like me) did succeed in whiskering up a second date.
 
Toward the end of my last night under the town, though, we scuttled into a bit of a problem. While we were on the dance floor shaking our tails to the beat with the girls, it seems that someone made off with our cheese. We returned to our nestlet only to find those heavenly slices missing, though our drinks were left behind. Some of my pals think the male mice, jealous of us flirting with their dames, were behind the thievery. (Hey, once you go rat, you know that’s where it’s at!) But I suspect it was really those dastardly sand fleas. Every rat knows they’re bad news – always jumping around the beach like pests (not that I, as a rat, would know anything about being a pest) – and like I squeaked before, I’d already had problems with them. It also makes sense that they’d take the cheese but leave the drinks behind: they’ve got plenty of water from the sea. So as I was drowning my sorrows in a glass of havartirita I decided to wax lyrical, and here’s what I came up with:
 
Wastin’ away again in Margarataville.
Searchin’ for my lost slices of cheese …
Some ’hood rats claim that there’s a mouse to blame,
But I know it was really those fleas.
 
(Four paws up to Mr. Jimmy Buffett for my scratching of this parody on his hit song “Margaritaville.”)
 
If you too have vacationed in your own little slice of paradise this year, I hope your trip was rat-tastic. And if you’ve yet to leave but have plans to go to the beach, I’d advise you to keep on the squeak-out for those cheese-stealing, bandit sand fleas.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob

Guard Rat, Hiding Rat

 
Once settled into our new burrow, Unsuspecting Victim and I had opportunity to learn more about each other. She learned that I’m afraid of Animal Planet (especially that Cats 101 show), and I found out that she’s afraid of things that go bump in the night. (Not rats like me, but bad guys. After all, we were living on our own now.) Being the noble creature that I am, and because of my fondness for my new Alpha, I took it upon myself to protect her. Thus I took up my post on the dresser drawer next to her bedroom door, under the notion that anyone or anything that got into her apartment and as far back as the bedroom would see me staring them down with my beady-red eyes, freak out, and run away. I was her guard rat, and just as a piece of Brie or Gruyere does for me, my presence gave her a sense of comfort and security.
 
That is not to say, though, that I lost my sense of humor – I still love to hide. Over time, and with the help of Unsuspecting Victim’s twin sister, Sneaky, I found myself in a lot of places in our burrow: in the bed sheets (of course, my favorite … somehow I always seemed to find myself there); in a closet; between the seat cushions of the couch; behind the arm chair; defending the peas and carrots in her pantry; under the sink. (That time in the tub, though, was pretty interesting, as I was tempted to sneak down the drain and go visit my cousins in the sewer.)
 
Then one day I had an idea for the best hiding place of all: her refrigerator. (Mmm … just think of all the possibilities with such quick and ready access to my favorite delectable food.) Well, it turns out that this was a bad idea: I stayed in there undetected for three weeks. Three weeks – who’da thunk?! I mean, have you seen this girl eat? She has the metabolism of, well, a rat!!! (Thank my whiskers I didn’t choose to hide in the freezer!) Turns out she was just out of the burrow staying really busy at work and with her active social life (imagine … she didn’t bring me along to see her friends!) and had therefore eaten her meals elsewhere. She was pretty unhappy, though, without her guard rat, and I myself wasn’t happy being a rat-sicle.
 
So Sneaky and I decided it would be best to end my hiding days. When there was company at the burrow I would enjoy gracing them with my presence (the startle effect never ceased to make me smile) and at night I resumed my post as guard rat. She was comforted knowing I was there, and I was comforted by the fact that my rat nose was no longer frostbitten.
 
So I caution you again, as I did last week: be careful about what’s around the corner, because you never know what might squeak out. And also remember that not only do rats make great pets, we are fearless defenders of our territory and pack as well.
 
Keepin’ it squeak,
Bob