Rat Rescue


The other day one of my Facebook friends who spends far too much time sharing pictures of cute dogs about to lose their lease at the animal shelter took it to a new level when she shared a rat rescue site and appeared to be considering its merits for her own good works. At first glance, the Facebook page appeared to be a spoof and I thought, boy, Carole’s really been snookered now. When I read on I began to have a nagging suspicion that this was for real. I clicked, I drilled down and I read on.

There are several rat rescue organizations throughout the United states, probably one near you but not to worry, transport can be arranged. Something like the underground train for slaves, er I mean rats has been put in place. I was amazed by the number of rat rescue sites I found and plagued (sorry) by all the questions they raise. Is there a rat pound somewhere I don't know about? I suppose there might be exterminators providing the "pets" who advertise themselves as "no kill." I had some bees removed from my attic by just such an outfit. That was slightly more understandable to me. There is a bee shortage. Then, I discovered that the rescue rats were sourced from pets found abandoned. Apparently these are pets who were dumped by their inhumane owners and it does make you feel bad.

Rescue stories often involve heroic removal of pets from deplorable conditions. I can’t help wondering just how deplorable conditions would have to get to be unfit for a rat. I had a rat living in between my garbage compactor and kitchen cabinetry for several weeks doing quite well, thank you very much, judging from his size. Still this crawl space seemed pretty claustrophobic and it was the rat’s choice.

A couple more things to think about before you rush out to adopt. The rats must be adopted in pairs because they are social animals. Perhaps, judging by the numbers in need, you should ask, if they spay and/or neuter these rats before adopting them out? They claim to socialize the rats before they leave foster care but how do you really know? Are mice available as well? What might the penalty be if you take a bunch on the pretext of adoption and feed them to your snake?

A $10.00 adoption fee is requested but not required. I can’t speak to just how costly it is to run a rat rescue operation. Star’s Rat Rescue solicits donations and sells merchandise to raise money (picture rat hammocks and tee shirts). If you provide a temporary foster home until a furever home is found, your costs can be subsidized by the lead organization.

Perhaps, as my friend Julie suggested, it is time for a new rescue organization for people in dire straits but this time founded by rats. No orphans, just slovenly housekeepers, good cooks, and maybe the occasional teenager. I can already imagine the descriptions and pictures of successful rescues. Sponsors anyone? Did you know that humans make particularly good house pets and frequently provide their own houses?


My friend Anne suggested that we grab a currently unclaimed idea. We will report back after we investigate no kill bug killers, I mean removers. The slogans are not hard to imagine. Send a termite to a better place. And cockroach motel could take on a new meaning. Business or 501(c), I wonder?

All things considered, the "available" rats pictured are kind of cute but I suspect they may be mice posing as rats.

The Red Ottoman

While the internet and the technology it has spawned are wonderful, you would do well to be prepared to be startled by coincidences and haunted by memories. Cue up Twilight Zone music as I share a memory I never expected to retrieve. When I was about 5, I used to play in my grandmother's basement with my next door neighbor, Jean, also aged 5. My grandmother’s basement was bigger than my first and second apartments combined. My grandfather was a pawnbroker so where most people stored their old clothes and suitcases or built bomb shelters, my grandmother stockpiled her next 5 televisions, record players, and vacuum cleaners, just in case. In one room, she had a round, red leather ottoman which Jean taught me to use to its best advantage. We would put a record on, turn the ottoman on its side and play circus. Clearly my grandmother was wrong thinking the ottoman’s best days were over when she relegated it to the basement. Hard to say how many years before Jean and I tired of walking on the ottoman which would roll like a fat but lumpy log. Still, the time came when I forgot about the ottoman. My Aunt Ann and her family came to live in my grandmother’s house. I went back east to visit frequently over the next 45 years. During those years I tried to prepare myself for the great pain I knew I would feel when my grandmother’s house was no longer part of my life. Then, a couple years ago Ann died and the house was sold. Not long after, I went on a sentimental walk through the old neighborhood via Google Maps, with its panoramic pictures taken at street level doing all but reproducing the real thing. The vehicle that took the pics for Google must have driven by Ann's house during the last few days of clean up for the new buyer and a picture was immortalized showing a heap of throwaway stuff including the red ottoman at the end of the driveway.

I thought seeing the picture was a coincidence of the rarest order but the weird thing is that a year or so later, when I opened Google to see the ottoman again, it was gone, the yard magically restored to suburban perfection. I guess some things, like people, are not ready to fade away all at once.

Floating Psychosis

You might think my pool harbored the loch ness monster and sloshed on the shore of a volcano with a view directly into the event horizon beyond which lie the secrets within a black hole. If that seems a stretch to you, then, know that I approached reentry into these long abandoned waters with at least the care of the svelte newscaster turned diver who donned her dry suit to test the waters in the Gulf of Leak if not quite as much reason, well hardly any reason at all. But when it reached 110 degrees in my backyard today it seemed like just the right day to buy an inflatable chaise lounge and brave the elements of fear surrounding disrobing sufficiently to lounge submerged by almost an inch of water. My pool is hidden behind two sets of gates and 1/3 of an acre but there is a neighbor who could stand on her upstairs deck and possibly see something; there are delivery men who come up my drive way and there is an occasional hovering aircraft within a mile or less. And all modesty aside, I should avoid the sun like poison in order to defer the crepe paper that my skin is determined to become. So, this preamble explains my search through closets for just the right bathing frock. I settled on a two piece and while that description would be accurate it might be slightly misleading. One piece was a long sleeve pull over henley and the other was a terrycloth bathing suit cover up or apres bath drying dress replete with velcro closure. We won't count the other two pieces which were my underwear or the hat and I forgot altogether to bring sunglasses in the fray of preparation.
Wardrobe ready, just the final touches required attention. I composed a path made of towels leading back to the house to dry my dog should he decide to join me. The right reading matter to set the mood, a summer back yard landscaping and entertaining magazine, seemed just right. A bottle of sun screen fit nicely in one built in cup holder of my floating lounge and a styrofoam cup of fresh brewed ice tea in the other. As for ultimate comfort and hair protectorant, I folded and nestled a bath sheet sized towel into the indentation designed to receive my head. Finally, as I boarded the vessel I held a cordless phone aloft to keep it dry at the expense of the magazine destined immediately to be soaked with water and the beverage which survived more or less as long as my magazine before pouring directly into the pool. These mishaps did not spoil my fun for even one minute; they were just information to stow away for next time as I aim to perfect this sybaritic psychosis. I wonder if the lapping water and the ambient temperature reduction effected by contact with all that water didn't feel better to me than it would have to those mindless swimmers who think nothing of striding poolside, amidst crowds of strangers, leaving their enveloping towels far away from the point where they will have to exit the pool. I wonder if I have what it takes to try this again tomorrow.