The rats that share our home

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. :)

Socrates as Persephone

This started as a reply to a friend on Facebook, who happily just found his cat in the attic after not seeing her for two days. I don't know that I've ever put this into writing, but it's a story Demetrius and I have told many times.

Our first cat, Socrates. didn't eat for the first week we had him. We adopted him from a shelter near our apartment in Chicago. Place was called Happy Tails, and I don't think it's there any more. Anyway, we were on a bike ride, but stopped in to look at the kitties. Ended up walking the bikes home, carrying a black cat named Socrates in a box. That was the easiest time we ever had naming a cat--we both thought of the name independently at the same time. Vulcan mind meld or something.

Anyway, this was my first experience of a shelter where the cats were walking around loose and not in cages. Socrates "chose" us--just pretty much attached himself to us and followed us the whole time. So we HAD to adopt him. 

The best I can figure it, Socrates thought he was inviting us to stay at his place and hang out with him. He was decidedly unhappy about being put inside a box (maybe someone told him about Shrodinger), and didn't seem to get much happier when we got back to Demetrius' apartment and let him out of the box.

Disclaimer time...I know that we humans misremember things all the time. We call up memories over the years, and gradually some of the details change. But, according to my memory, Socrates spent his first week in that apartment lying down in his litter box. I remember thinking that he was creating a visual metaphor: "My life is in the toilet right now."

I also remember that the first thing Socrates ate in that apartment was a little shred of chicken from a sandwich Demetrius brought home from Wendy's. I can't say for sure if I brought it to him where he was lying, or if he came to me to check out the yummy snack I was holding. But I offered him a little bite of chicken, and he ate it. 

Socrates and Moxie

According to the rules I learned from the myth of Persephone, eating the food we gave him meant he had to stay with us forever. So I guess it took him a week to decide that for sure.

Perkins learns some words

When Mom came into town for Son's graduation, she brought her dog Pablo and stayed in a hotel. For two of the nights she was there, I brought Perkins and stayed the night. I enjoyed some nice visiting time with Mom, and the two young dogs got to romp together.

I'm not a morning person, and, if I don't remember exactly where I set my glasses before going to bed, I am pretty useless until I either miraculously find them, or go ahead and put my contact lenses in. So I was kind of slow on the uptake when Mom started saying things like, "Did you know that Perkins can bow?"

I was confused, but then looked over at Perkins doing his deep morning stretch. Mom says "That's a bow! Good bow Perkins!" Then Perkins starts in on a sneezing fit. "That's a sneeze, Perkins! Good sneeze!"

Okay, I get it. And I was impressed. I also realized that I could cut myself some slack for not being as good labeling things for my dogs because I hadn't really done it before. I think Mom has been working with her dogs like this long enough that it's become second nature.

In the month and a half since then, I've been consciously working on this--and shifted my thinking from "I'm going to teach Perkins these commands" to something a little closer to, "I'm going to work on teaching Perkins the words in English that I want him to know."

He definitely knows what "treat" means now. I will promise him a "treat" right after he makes a "poop", and will bound excitedly to the door so that I can let him into the kitchen and he can collect his reward. He also seems to know what a "toy" is, but only his "elephant toy" is super special and awesome.

So if I ask Perkins, "Where's your elephant toy?", he will immediately start wagging his tail. "Go get your elephant toy!" Tail still wagging, Perkins begins to track down his favorite toy.

Early this evening, I had both dogs out in the yard together. My main goal was to make sure that Perkins got in a good, tiring play session so that he would more or less happily rest in his crate while the family watched something together. Perkins doesn't understand that Son wishes to impose a restraining order that would require that no part of a dog's body can ever come within 6 feet of him. (Especially that infernal wagging tail!) So the only way "family time" can be a more or less positive experience is for Perkins to spend that time quietly locked inside his crate.

So I was trying to play with Perkins. "Here's a ball, Perkins. Can you go get the ball? Bring me the ball, Perkins!"  I'm trying to work up all this excitement, and then throw the ball. Perkins just gives me this look that says, "Yeah, sorry. I don't care much for those."

Then I see the stuffed Winnie the Pooh doll--which remains remarkably unmaimed. He owes this good fortune to fact that he is stuffed ONLY with fluff. No squeaker. So I pick up the toy and throw it, saying to Perkins, "Where's Pooh?" And immediately I realize, aw, crud, that sounds way too close to the word "poop". So I switch to "Where's Winnie--", and then look over at my other dog. Damn, that name's already taken! So finally, I came up with "Where's your bear toy?"

I never imagined play time could be so mentally taxing!

Elephant Ears

From This Week Community News:

From rides to livestock, pork loin to elephant ears, art to bungee jumping -- the Ohio State Fair, as usual, offers satisfaction for most any taste. 

Perkins sampled some elephant ears today, and while he approves of the mouth feel, he remarked that they don't really "haz much of a flavor".

What this elephant does have is something crucial for a toy that has any chance of becoming a favorite--a squeaker. So I think now is the time for muddy, chewed up Mr. Lion to slip away quietly...in the night.

Water

Um, no. I didn't.

I am NOT asking anyone on my Facebook friends list whether they wish to remain on my friends list. This sort of thing really ticks me off.

It's a "Facebook viral question", which is apparently different from a virus. But if a question a person didn't ask is being attributed to that person as if he or she did ask that question, something is broken.

My great big puppy

Perkins got away again last night. In the dark, when I was taking him out for one last potty break for the night. I ran to try to keep up with him--clearly a lost cause, but I need to keep him from getting TOO far ahead of me. Whoever he was running to greet apparently ignored him, and he started to run back in my direction. I called him, but he just started to run past me. 

Then I tripped. I have no idea who it was that suggested pretending to fall as a way of getting a dog to come back. I wasn't pretending when I fell, but I remembered the idea at that moment and stayed down. Perky came to me, and I was able to get a grip on his harness and lead him back to the house.

Anyway, we are now reevaluating how old this boy actually is. Socrates, the first cat Demetrius and I adopted together, died when he was allegedly only 8 years old. I say "allegedly" because that was his accurate age only if he was genuinely 2 when we adopted him from a shelter in Chicago. Since that time, I've learned that shelter are often only "guess-timating" when they tell you an animal's age. Absent any dental evidence to the contrary, it seems like adult cats of unknown origin are always two years old. 

It seems like the opposite may have happened with Perkins. Supposedly, he will be 4 in September. He sure doesn't act it. But I assumed what the shelter told me was accurate due to his circumstances. According to his description, he ended up in the shelter after his owner died. I thought he'd been brought in by a family member, but apparently that is not the case.

All I was able to find out is that the mailman found him, got someone he knew to look after Perkins temporarily, and it was *that* individual who signed the release papers at the shelter. So it appears there is no "solid" evidence that I actually adopted a 3 1/2 year old dog. And he sure still has a lot of "puppy" in him!

Lucky for me, my boy is not always on the move...

Ritual

I love a good ritual.



Really, Renee? Do you really LOVE rituals? Or is "good" the operative term here? And, if so, what makes something a "good" ritual?


Jeez, Inner Critic, back off, will you?? I haven't written a "real" blog post in a long time--and here you are making me all self-conscious!


That's not my intent. I'm just trying to keep you honest. Hadn't you decided that being honest and straightforward were core values for you?


Yes, that's true.


All right, let me try this again. "Love" is probably too strong a word. But there's no single word that captures it for me. I know that I need ritual in my life, and I feel sense of longing if I don't have something to fill that void.


I think I am also drawn to rituals--especially important ones. Like a moth to a flame. Or a bit of metal to a magnet.


Then there's just plain old curiosity. As in, "I had no idea there was an official ritual for that. I wonder what that's like..."


I think that last one was the clincher that compelled me, like iron filings are compelled toward a magnet, to drive downtown today (when I "should" have been scoring math responses to earn money) for the deconsecration of the former Saint Paul's Episcopal Church on Broad Street.


Quite often I find that I have a number of reasons for doing a particular thing. The more good reasons I can think of, the better the chances I will be able to turn impulse into action.

On any given night I might go out to sing karaoke. I can change my clothes, touch up my makeup, and then sit down and start fiddling with something on the computer. I'll look up at the clock from time to time until I finally sigh and say to myself, "Not tonight, I guess..." and then change clothes again for bed.


So I didn't even click "maybe" on the Facebook invite. The decision was truly last minute. I did some water aerobics and then looked at the invite again on my phone. Oh--I'd forgotten this part--the Bishop is going to be there. So it's an Important Ritual. I am SO going to this! (I misspoke a few paragraphs ago--this was the clincher.)


And I'm glad that Rev. Cricket Park had the idea to celebrate one last Eucharist in the church. I was one of a congregation of six that were gathered around the altar when the service began, and gradually more people began to trickle in. At some point Bishop Breidenthal arrived, but I didn't notice him right away. I think I recognized him just as he was about to take communion from Cricket.


Growing up in the Catholic church, the priesthood was always off limits to me. Now that I have been Episcopalian for almost a decade, the novelty of women as priests has worn off slightly. But as I was taking in this scene of a female priest serving communion to the Bishop of the Diocese of Southern Ohio, something inside me screamed, "This is so freaking cool!"


I'll try to make up some of that math scoring time tomorrow. This was an experience worth participating in.