Rat rehabilitation
As mentioned elsewhere, I have distressingly little ‘spare’ time at the marine lab. I mean, what are they expecting me to do all day? Work?
So I think the solution is this; at home grab ten minutes here, ten minutes there, and see what I can generate for this Live Journal of mine.
Take this evening, for example. I have time to kill because I am sitting in the kitchen keeping an eye on the rats in the basement.
Let me reassure those of you new to my world that the rats intentionally inhabit my basement and are not, for example, disease ridden ex-sewer inhabitants biding their time to chew half my face off whilst I sleep the sleep of the just, infecting me with variously unsavoury and highly communicable conditions that might give you pause the next time you see me bearing down inexorably with wide open arms to fold you to my bosom.
Oh no.
These are rather entertaining pet rats. The product of Jack Black, who (I believe, can’t be arsed Googling it) was ratcatcher to Queen Victoria. He noticed the inevitable odd colour aberrations in wild populations, whilst catching rats for the fighting rings (euch!) and bred them. Indeed, these colour variations became rather popular pets for upper-middle class Victorian children. Subsequently, these strains were intensively consolidated, and diversified, principally for that necessary evil of laboratory testing. I have three of the little darlings. Cuthbert, Dibble and Grub (you know, along the lines of ‘Hugh, Hugh, Barney McGrew. Cuthbert, Dibble, Grub. Don’t look at me like that. These names came from the U.K. Bookcrossing Yahoo group collective. Anyway, I rather like them.)
Where was I? Ah! So these three are brothers, which, coupled with the highly social hierarchy of rat society, should have led to (on the whole) harmonious living. But one brother, once he began generating testosterone, became a little furball of fury. Rats hair, like cats, stands completely on end when they’re agitated, and so Grub was transformed from a (to be honest) rather weird rat to a little puffball of angst.
And then he got bigger.
Push came to shove and the decision was made to castrate him. Which is more or less where we are now. I am trying to reintroduce him to his brothers, but it appears that elephants are not the only animal with a long memory. And so I sit here, with a glass of wine and three deeply apprehensive animals, acting as referee.
What I find astonishing is the ferocity with which Grubb (the ball-less one) is defending himself. I mean, really! How can he be that aggressive with no testosterone?!!! (Why does this remind me of Bush?!)
Cuthbert will be fine. If he were human, he’d be gay. Cuthbert is all sleek good looks, provocative manner but a real wimp if any other rat as much as frowns at him. This trait usually keeps him well out of trouble.
Dibble, on the other hand… Well, if Dibble were human, he would be a bouncer. At the roughest club in town.
This has not, as you may have already surmised, generated a match made in heaven.
Will I leave the rats in the same cage? Will Dibble and Grub make it through the night without tearing each others throats out? Will Cuthbert suffer disturbed sleep because of those nasty great brutes posturing at the other end of the cage?
Watch this space.
Other breaking news from the Mytilus household stresses, in large, bold, underlined letters (no idea how to make that happen here) that Shaolin Soccer (film; more or less) is actually rather shit and that the Pistachios (band) are rather good.
And, godammit!, this computer is giving me shocks. All advice gratefully received.
So I think the solution is this; at home grab ten minutes here, ten minutes there, and see what I can generate for this Live Journal of mine.
Take this evening, for example. I have time to kill because I am sitting in the kitchen keeping an eye on the rats in the basement.
Let me reassure those of you new to my world that the rats intentionally inhabit my basement and are not, for example, disease ridden ex-sewer inhabitants biding their time to chew half my face off whilst I sleep the sleep of the just, infecting me with variously unsavoury and highly communicable conditions that might give you pause the next time you see me bearing down inexorably with wide open arms to fold you to my bosom.
Oh no.
These are rather entertaining pet rats. The product of Jack Black, who (I believe, can’t be arsed Googling it) was ratcatcher to Queen Victoria. He noticed the inevitable odd colour aberrations in wild populations, whilst catching rats for the fighting rings (euch!) and bred them. Indeed, these colour variations became rather popular pets for upper-middle class Victorian children. Subsequently, these strains were intensively consolidated, and diversified, principally for that necessary evil of laboratory testing. I have three of the little darlings. Cuthbert, Dibble and Grub (you know, along the lines of ‘Hugh, Hugh, Barney McGrew. Cuthbert, Dibble, Grub. Don’t look at me like that. These names came from the U.K. Bookcrossing Yahoo group collective. Anyway, I rather like them.)
Where was I? Ah! So these three are brothers, which, coupled with the highly social hierarchy of rat society, should have led to (on the whole) harmonious living. But one brother, once he began generating testosterone, became a little furball of fury. Rats hair, like cats, stands completely on end when they’re agitated, and so Grub was transformed from a (to be honest) rather weird rat to a little puffball of angst.
And then he got bigger.
Push came to shove and the decision was made to castrate him. Which is more or less where we are now. I am trying to reintroduce him to his brothers, but it appears that elephants are not the only animal with a long memory. And so I sit here, with a glass of wine and three deeply apprehensive animals, acting as referee.
What I find astonishing is the ferocity with which Grubb (the ball-less one) is defending himself. I mean, really! How can he be that aggressive with no testosterone?!!! (Why does this remind me of Bush?!)
Cuthbert will be fine. If he were human, he’d be gay. Cuthbert is all sleek good looks, provocative manner but a real wimp if any other rat as much as frowns at him. This trait usually keeps him well out of trouble.
Dibble, on the other hand… Well, if Dibble were human, he would be a bouncer. At the roughest club in town.
This has not, as you may have already surmised, generated a match made in heaven.
Will I leave the rats in the same cage? Will Dibble and Grub make it through the night without tearing each others throats out? Will Cuthbert suffer disturbed sleep because of those nasty great brutes posturing at the other end of the cage?
Watch this space.
Other breaking news from the Mytilus household stresses, in large, bold, underlined letters (no idea how to make that happen here) that Shaolin Soccer (film; more or less) is actually rather shit and that the Pistachios (band) are rather good.
And, godammit!, this computer is giving me shocks. All advice gratefully received.