Once upon a time, my daughter had three pet rats: Vladimir, Shiroyuki, and Dango. She got Vladimir first, and the rat rescue lady said she would let us know when another young rat became available, because she preferred to only adopt out ratties in pairs. A month or so passed, and no young mail rats were available, so I started looking elsewhere. There was a woman in town who had a litter of babies ready to be adopted. I went to her house to pick one out and bring it home. Daughter was happy to have her single rat and was less than interested in following through on getting Vlad a cage mate.
And I came home with two rats. As Vlad was a dark color--I believe the technical term is agouti--it seemed to make sense to choose a rat that was a distinctly different color. There was a mostly white rat with dark markings that seemed to fit the bill. But then there was this other boy, a "dumbo" whose color was described as blue. Or, what normal people might call gray. But it was an adorable gray. A cuddly stuffed animal gray. And, knowing that whichever rat I took home was going to need to be quarantined for a period of time, I hated the thought of putting one of these cuties in "solitary confinement". So, two little four-week-old ratties came home with me. Daughter dubbed the mostly white one "Shiroyuki", and the blue dumbo "Dango".
Vlad only lived to be about a year and a half. He was rescued from becoming snake food, so we reasoned that good longevity genes were not a big consideration for that breeder. Shiroyuki lived two years. So that left only Dango.
By now, I may have made it clear that I had a soft spot in my heart for Dango. He was the "bonus" rat, and truth be told, I really would have liked to have him as my own. But they were Daughter's rats, and the cage was in her room. I tried to give him some extra attention while Daughter was at school. I would take him out and put him in a little "playpen" with things that he could crawl over or through. I painstakingly wove stretches of toilet paper in and out of the bars on his cage, in order to give Dango some "work" to occupy him. He was able to get that tissue out of the bars in no time at all, and then added it to his collection of bedding.
So, here was this rat, two years old--the oldest I'd ever known a rat to live. But he didn't act old. He showed no signs of slowing down. And, in my opinion, he was lacking in companionship, intellectual stimulation, and grooming--and all of these needs (again, in my opinion) could be best fulfilled by other rats.
When I again found baby rats available in the area, we went to choose two of them. (Given that Dango was two years old, it really did make sense to get him a pair of same-age companions). And I think the companionship was good for Dango, who went on to live at least another half a year. Toward the end, he started showing signs of illness--a couple of tumors--and one of the younger rats bit him pretty hard. Daughter was horrified that they could be such "jerks", but I tried to point out that "respect for your elders" is probably not a deeply ingrained value in rat culture.
Dango was separated from the other two rats (which Daughter had named Elemenope and Doctor Shemp) and lived out his last month or so in a smaller cage in our office. We all decided that it was time for the other rats (in their huge two-story cage) to be moved downstairs to the living room so that they could become more of a part of the household. As Daughter had not really wanted these two rats in the first place, I sort of "inherited" them at that point. I now call them "Spot" and "Stripe"--rather uncreatively naming them after their head markings. I felt it was important to call them by individual names, rather than just referring to them as "the rats"--which I was sorely tempted to do, as I found the names my daughter had given them impossibly unwieldy.
Unfortunately, I wasn't given much opportunity to interact with them during their formative early months, so I took things slowly with these guys, working on getting them to see me as "mostly harmless". I was, after all, the Food Bringer. They still don't want me to hold them. I have tried, from time to time, especially with Stripe, who seems somewhat less fearful. He tolerates it, sort of, but really wants to get back into his cage. And then I remember, "Oh yeah, I actually am allergic to rats!" (I didn't used to be.) When I held Stripe briefly yesterday, I became aware of a small tumor near one of his front legs. I guess they are hardly "young-uns" any more--I think they will be two years old in November.
Today, after being hit by a fresh wave of guilt that Spot and Stripe really hadn't enjoyed the level of care that our other rats had received, I decided that it was high time that I gave them...a bath. (Spot and Stripe: "No, really, you shouldn't have. Really!")
But we all survived, and we now have two clean rats in our living room. They don't seem to be any more fearful than they were before the experience, and still take food from me. So I'm going to call today a success. :)
And I came home with two rats. As Vlad was a dark color--I believe the technical term is agouti--it seemed to make sense to choose a rat that was a distinctly different color. There was a mostly white rat with dark markings that seemed to fit the bill. But then there was this other boy, a "dumbo" whose color was described as blue. Or, what normal people might call gray. But it was an adorable gray. A cuddly stuffed animal gray. And, knowing that whichever rat I took home was going to need to be quarantined for a period of time, I hated the thought of putting one of these cuties in "solitary confinement". So, two little four-week-old ratties came home with me. Daughter dubbed the mostly white one "Shiroyuki", and the blue dumbo "Dango".
Vlad only lived to be about a year and a half. He was rescued from becoming snake food, so we reasoned that good longevity genes were not a big consideration for that breeder. Shiroyuki lived two years. So that left only Dango.
By now, I may have made it clear that I had a soft spot in my heart for Dango. He was the "bonus" rat, and truth be told, I really would have liked to have him as my own. But they were Daughter's rats, and the cage was in her room. I tried to give him some extra attention while Daughter was at school. I would take him out and put him in a little "playpen" with things that he could crawl over or through. I painstakingly wove stretches of toilet paper in and out of the bars on his cage, in order to give Dango some "work" to occupy him. He was able to get that tissue out of the bars in no time at all, and then added it to his collection of bedding.
So, here was this rat, two years old--the oldest I'd ever known a rat to live. But he didn't act old. He showed no signs of slowing down. And, in my opinion, he was lacking in companionship, intellectual stimulation, and grooming--and all of these needs (again, in my opinion) could be best fulfilled by other rats.
When I again found baby rats available in the area, we went to choose two of them. (Given that Dango was two years old, it really did make sense to get him a pair of same-age companions). And I think the companionship was good for Dango, who went on to live at least another half a year. Toward the end, he started showing signs of illness--a couple of tumors--and one of the younger rats bit him pretty hard. Daughter was horrified that they could be such "jerks", but I tried to point out that "respect for your elders" is probably not a deeply ingrained value in rat culture.
Dango was separated from the other two rats (which Daughter had named Elemenope and Doctor Shemp) and lived out his last month or so in a smaller cage in our office. We all decided that it was time for the other rats (in their huge two-story cage) to be moved downstairs to the living room so that they could become more of a part of the household. As Daughter had not really wanted these two rats in the first place, I sort of "inherited" them at that point. I now call them "Spot" and "Stripe"--rather uncreatively naming them after their head markings. I felt it was important to call them by individual names, rather than just referring to them as "the rats"--which I was sorely tempted to do, as I found the names my daughter had given them impossibly unwieldy.
Unfortunately, I wasn't given much opportunity to interact with them during their formative early months, so I took things slowly with these guys, working on getting them to see me as "mostly harmless". I was, after all, the Food Bringer. They still don't want me to hold them. I have tried, from time to time, especially with Stripe, who seems somewhat less fearful. He tolerates it, sort of, but really wants to get back into his cage. And then I remember, "Oh yeah, I actually am allergic to rats!" (I didn't used to be.) When I held Stripe briefly yesterday, I became aware of a small tumor near one of his front legs. I guess they are hardly "young-uns" any more--I think they will be two years old in November.
Today, after being hit by a fresh wave of guilt that Spot and Stripe really hadn't enjoyed the level of care that our other rats had received, I decided that it was high time that I gave them...a bath. (Spot and Stripe: "No, really, you shouldn't have. Really!")
But we all survived, and we now have two clean rats in our living room. They don't seem to be any more fearful than they were before the experience, and still take food from me. So I'm going to call today a success. :)
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