My wife's sister was kind enough to email me this picture of her late pet's backyard memorial. Touching though this may be, the deceased's grave marker is somewhat misleading as it depicts a little mouse much like the creatures that befriend Cinderella and mend her gown for the ball or like the two cousins, one from the city and one from the country, who go and visit each other. Mice after all are adorable woodland creatures that gobble up Swiss cheese and outsmart their feline foe. They're cute, right? Well this perished pet's name was Randy and Randy was not cute (See photo and poll below to voice your opinion). In fact, he wasn't even a mouse at all. Randy was a rat.Far be it for me to begrudge my beloved sister-in-law her rightful mourning period. Anyone who's had a pet knows that they do become part of your life and when they finally do meet their reward, whether that be a plot in the backyard or a one-way tour through the bathroom plumbing, there is a part of the family history that goes with them. But a rat? That's not quite the same as my loving cat who fetches and returns catnip-filled feather balls or my dog who, envious of the cat, then races for and destroys catnip-filled feather balls, is it? Can a rat really capture the affection of a loving family?
On the one occasion that I had the pleasure of meeting Randy the Rat he sat in the corner of his cage, refusing to move or even make a peep. A rat of few words, that Randy. He was also quite rotund and he suffered from male patterned baldness. Sure, he had the opportunity to explore his rodent wheel and occasional cardboard toilet paper tube, but he turned his long pointy nose up at these and instead preferred to bask in his antisocial solitude and silent cognizance. In his beady black eyes there was a look of shiftiness as though in the back of his mind he was plotting world domination and the downfall of bipeds everywhere.
Or is this observation just a reflection of my aversion to all things rodentary?
I wouldn't call myself a suriphobe per se because I have lived peacefully in a home where gerbils were accepted as pets. My brother owned them and then passed his penchant on to his two daughters, who went on to own hamsters. If I fell asleep my nieces would enjoy watching my expression as I woke up to a hamster sitting on my chest. My reaction was never one of horror or abnormal fear but I'll admit to a slight degree of disfavor. It's not that I have a problem with rodents. I just think when it comes to them my best stance is one of noninterference. They have their world, and I have mine. Kinda like the Amish.
When Caroline and her husband, Matt, first purchased Randy, they also got him a leash and collar to wear(Randy, that is -- not Matt). The theory was that Randy would accompany Caroline as she pushed her daughter around the neighborhood in a stroller. I don't know enough about rats to know what kind of pace they keep with those tiny little legs. Do they chase after cars or like my dog, unexpectedly stop dead in their tracks in full view of the neighbor's living room window to hunker down and pop a squat in someone else's yard? If so, is the owner required to pick it up? Turns out, it's all a moot issue really. As I understand it, the concept of rat walking never came to fruition. Randy either lacked the ability or desire or both.
Caroline tells me that when their daughter is old enough they'll try another rat, and that said rat will prove himself so worthy of petdom that my daughter too wil clamor for one. I'll talk it over with my wife when the time comes, but somehow I don't see us adding a rat to the fray. I'm sure rats are warm creatures that provide all the affection a rat owner would come to expect, but I can't shake that whole bubonic plague image. I'm judgemental that way.
As for Randy's untimely demise, if you're thinking about sending my family flowers, hold off. While the date in the photo reveals that the picture of his grave marker was taken just this week, I actually got the email announcing Randy's death nine months ago. Caroline must have just been snapping photos in the backyard.
I guess everyone grieves in their own way
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