column on the sylly
This is the week I announce it to the world.
I’m in love.
Her name is Sylvia. She peers up at me with black bulging eyes, her multitude of whiskers wiggling. I’ve known her for a month and two weeks, and I swear that every day she gets cuter. Her favorite foods are sunflower seeds, popcorn, lettuce, and carrots. She is small, brownish grey, and has a grey tail with a white fleck at the end - just a little bundle of furry warmth when I hold her in my hands.
Yes, dear readers, I am now the doting owner of a young girly rat.
You may wrinkle your foreheads with disgust, thinking to yourself how smelly rats are, how they carry diseases - it was their fleas, I know, which brought about the Black Death - and a host of other bad things. I’ll grant you that they do tend to smell, but only when you don’t change their bedding often enough, or when you try but fail in giving them a bath.
But when you get down to it, most pets smell. Humans smell. Smelliness doesn’t make them any less lovable. And though I need to change Sylvia’s bedding today, she is still my dear friend, one I always wished for, that would be able to play with me any time at all, with no reservations.
Many parents would certainly be hesitant at the idea of letting a rat into the house. But as in many situations in our household, my older sister had already broken us into the idea, because she owns three big boy rats: Archie, Raoul, and Freddy. I must say that if I had just known Archie and Raoul, who were full-grown - the size of small puppies - when I met them, I’d probably be as against rats as most of the world. But then I met Freddy.
My sister and I both fell in love with Freddy when we went to the pet store in the mall. He looked so intelligent and full of life that we couldn’t bear to think he might become snake food. So my sister bought him.
We let Freddy crawl all over us. I fondly remember one occasion when he climbed under my shirt and fell asleep while I played computer games. But of course then my sister moved to Colorado, and with her went my three rat nephews - three mice nieces, as well.
In spite of their initial objections, my parents relented around mid-October, and my mom went with me to buy a cage for my future rat. I chose a wire one with three levels - technically a hamster cage. Mom bought a little hammock as a housewarming gift.
Because I don’t know of any rat breeders in Findlay, I returned to the pet store in the mall. Observing the cage for young rats, I discovered Sylvia. She was burrowing under the pine bedding, sending the rats above her tumbling onto their backs. I fell in love right then.
My parents agree that she is dreadfully cute, but they are opposed to the idea of her crawling around on them. After all, rats will be rats, and they aren’t potty-trained. Of course, for people like me, this is almost a good thing; when you get past the feeling of warm wetness on your clothes, it forces you to do laundry more often. I’m already practicing the college laundry method of if-it-doesn’t-look-or-smell-dirty-don’t-bother-washing-it, so this is a helpful nudge in the clean direction.
And so I let her run rampant on me and on my bed. This isn’t without other problems, though - one night, I thought I’d lost her. I had let her play in my sheets while I read my lit assignment, when suddenly I realized I couldn’t see or hear her. I was a crying, runny-nosed mess as I ripped my room apart looking for her. At midnight, I knocked on my parents’ door to beg their sleepy-eyed help. A few minutes later my mom spotted Sylvia’s pink nose sticking out of the clothes I had just heaped on my bed in my frantic search. I have never been so relieved.
Sylvia is sleeping in my lap right now, and it’s probably the longest time I’ve ever seen her not fidgeting. But look, she awakes! A large yawn shows her yellow teeth.
Forget poor dental hygiene. I’m in love.
I’m in love.
Her name is Sylvia. She peers up at me with black bulging eyes, her multitude of whiskers wiggling. I’ve known her for a month and two weeks, and I swear that every day she gets cuter. Her favorite foods are sunflower seeds, popcorn, lettuce, and carrots. She is small, brownish grey, and has a grey tail with a white fleck at the end - just a little bundle of furry warmth when I hold her in my hands.
Yes, dear readers, I am now the doting owner of a young girly rat.
You may wrinkle your foreheads with disgust, thinking to yourself how smelly rats are, how they carry diseases - it was their fleas, I know, which brought about the Black Death - and a host of other bad things. I’ll grant you that they do tend to smell, but only when you don’t change their bedding often enough, or when you try but fail in giving them a bath.
But when you get down to it, most pets smell. Humans smell. Smelliness doesn’t make them any less lovable. And though I need to change Sylvia’s bedding today, she is still my dear friend, one I always wished for, that would be able to play with me any time at all, with no reservations.
Many parents would certainly be hesitant at the idea of letting a rat into the house. But as in many situations in our household, my older sister had already broken us into the idea, because she owns three big boy rats: Archie, Raoul, and Freddy. I must say that if I had just known Archie and Raoul, who were full-grown - the size of small puppies - when I met them, I’d probably be as against rats as most of the world. But then I met Freddy.
My sister and I both fell in love with Freddy when we went to the pet store in the mall. He looked so intelligent and full of life that we couldn’t bear to think he might become snake food. So my sister bought him.
We let Freddy crawl all over us. I fondly remember one occasion when he climbed under my shirt and fell asleep while I played computer games. But of course then my sister moved to Colorado, and with her went my three rat nephews - three mice nieces, as well.
In spite of their initial objections, my parents relented around mid-October, and my mom went with me to buy a cage for my future rat. I chose a wire one with three levels - technically a hamster cage. Mom bought a little hammock as a housewarming gift.
Because I don’t know of any rat breeders in Findlay, I returned to the pet store in the mall. Observing the cage for young rats, I discovered Sylvia. She was burrowing under the pine bedding, sending the rats above her tumbling onto their backs. I fell in love right then.
My parents agree that she is dreadfully cute, but they are opposed to the idea of her crawling around on them. After all, rats will be rats, and they aren’t potty-trained. Of course, for people like me, this is almost a good thing; when you get past the feeling of warm wetness on your clothes, it forces you to do laundry more often. I’m already practicing the college laundry method of if-it-doesn’t-look-or-smell-dirty-don’t-bother-washing-it, so this is a helpful nudge in the clean direction.
And so I let her run rampant on me and on my bed. This isn’t without other problems, though - one night, I thought I’d lost her. I had let her play in my sheets while I read my lit assignment, when suddenly I realized I couldn’t see or hear her. I was a crying, runny-nosed mess as I ripped my room apart looking for her. At midnight, I knocked on my parents’ door to beg their sleepy-eyed help. A few minutes later my mom spotted Sylvia’s pink nose sticking out of the clothes I had just heaped on my bed in my frantic search. I have never been so relieved.
Sylvia is sleeping in my lap right now, and it’s probably the longest time I’ve ever seen her not fidgeting. But look, she awakes! A large yawn shows her yellow teeth.
Forget poor dental hygiene. I’m in love.