Illustration by Catherine Chan
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One evening over dinner about 10 years ago, my husband Brian told our two kids about his time working in an experimental psychology laboratory. Conversation veered toward the compelling characteristics of the lab rats. The kids, intrigued, concluded that the main obstacle to their own rat ownership was me. Working a night shift, I had not been there for this conversation. They had 12 hours to build their case.
The next morning, sleep-deprived, I marshalled little resistance to my 12-year-old daughter Miranda’s PowerPoint presentation. Oh sure, I mewled about the tails, or the feral scent I feared our house would acquire. Ultimately, however, terms were reached: I would not be responsible for their care in any way, nor would I be expected to touch them. Brian soon identified a nearby rat breeder and put dibs on three brothers from a recent litter. If the expression “adopt, don’t shop” is coming to mind, trust me when I say one does not “rescue” a rat. How would you even do that? Hang out behind an East Side Mario’s? Scour the New York subway tracks for an international adoption? Inadvisable.
A few weeks later, we brought Scabber, Shredder and Crystal home. In their enormous two-story cage, they were relatively docile, nibbling on their pellets, sleeping, or grooming each other. But once out of the cage for their daily supervised run-about, their personalities shone. Scabber and Shredder would tear around, then abruptly stop on a dime, stand up on their hind legs facing each other, and start throwing hands. Crystal, who Miranda assigned female, didn’t take part in the boxing matches, but was a master of stealing the others’ treats and stashing them in her hiding spot. If caught in the act, she would make a beeline for Miranda and climb up her leg to safety.
Mom’s bond with our shared cat showed me the healing power of pets
Won over by their unique and well-developed personalities, I had dropped the conditions on my contract and was fully engaged with rat life. Rats love to be cuddled and when happy, their eyes bulge in and out and they make a “chattering” sound. (I know, I’m really selling you on this.)
To enrich the rats’ lives, Brian built an exact replica of the maze used in rat experiments. They loved playing in the maze, peering over the walls like meerkats. Miranda’s seventh-grade science project involved measuring how quickly each rat solved the maze to reach a Nutella treat at the end. As Shredder was forced to cede dominance to Scabber after a string of losses in the boxing matches, his once-proficient maze performance plummeted. Their brains were the size of a pencil eraser yet sustained an entire social order. I had a guinea pig as a child, but I never looked at him and said, “I suspect you have a rich inner life.”
For two years, they were all intensity and vigour. Then they weren’t. Lumps appeared, breathing laboured, energy flagged. We realized one of them would be left alone. Around that time, I heard of a friend of a friend whose rat had a litter, and they were looking to rehome some of them.
The goose that brought us together
We brought home brothers Scibber and Bandit and sisters Bolt and Patch to join the geriatric original three. The ramp between the two stories was closed off to allow the older rats to get used to the smell of the new rats. The older rats were infirm, sure, but still capable of making quick work of a newborn rat if they chose to.
The older rats turned out to be amused by and tolerant of the new additions. The young rats, now in puberty, tried relentlessly to get “alone time” with each other. We kept them segregated in the cage and watched them carefully during playtime.
It was not easy to find a vet willing to spay such a small animal. On the day of surgery, while Patch and Bolt were in his care, the vet called me. His voice was calm, almost conversational, as if about to confirm pickup times. Instead, he asked which rat was more important to us. If the first rat survived the surgery, only then would he proceed with the second. I paused. What in the King Solomon kind of question was this? I gave him my answer and he proceeded accordingly. Happily, both survived.
We got only two short years with our second set of rats. I had the sad task of telling Miranda that Patch, her “heart rat,” had died unexpectedly in the night, watching her search my face for some sign that it wasn’t true. Bolt, the rat I had thrown under the bus to the vet, lived the longest. In Bolt’s final weeks, I trained her to sit quietly with me and watch The Bachelorette. She knew if she stayed still, I would eventually feed her a yogurt cup. We had our routine, like any pair of old friends.
Karen Raymer lives in Dundas, Ontario.