"Happy Valentine's Day to all my dear friends. Come this Thursday, my humans will be doing their thing. Dinner at home with a better than normal wine. Cooked by B. While D takes me for my evening walk.
But what do I get out of this so called holiday? I can’t stomach chocolate. Flowers are only good for urinating upon. And if you wipe my ass with a Hallmark card, I’ll chew off your ear.
You know what I want. You do. I know you do. Yes. I want some chicken.
If you love me, you will give me some chicken.
Now, more about me.
Recently, I almost got hit by a jump bike which was riding extra fast on the sidewalk. My human freaked out. I won’t tell you which one. Maybe later.
That’s it. Have fun this holiday. Don’t think of me. Don’t drink and drive. Get safely laid. Bye bye."
An Elegy On The Death Of A Mad Dog - Poem by Oliver Goldsmith
Good people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song; And if you find it wondrous short, It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man Of whom the world might say, That still a godly race he ran— When ever he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes; The naked every day he clad— When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were friends; But when a pique began, The dog, to gain some private ends, Went mad, and bit the man. Around from all the neighbouring streets The wond'ring neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost its wits To bite so good a man.
The wound it seemed both sore and sad To every Christian eye; And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light That showed the rogues they lied,— The man recovered of the bite, The dog it was that died!
"Hello folks. May I confess something to you? Those people that ride on those electric scooters, I dislike them. I really, really dislike them, both the humans who ride them, and, the scooters themselves. There I am, trotting down the sidewalk with one of my beloved humans, and they come rushing toward us, forcing us off the concrete. Like I am supposed to forget that they are not supposed to be on the sidewalks, that they are supposed to wear helmets, and that there is no riding double? Do they care? No, they do not. Noow, I don’t mind moving off the sidewalk. I mean, where else am I going to take a healthy piss or squeeze out a decent loaf? But I’m concerned for my humans who are intensely focused on me, and could become injured when one of these jokers suddenly appears on the sidewalk, without a helmet, riding in tandem, and crashes into them, causing a huge eruption of blood, and delaying my supper. Don’t let this get around, but I try to pee and crap on the scooters. At first, I tried biting the exposed wires, but that darn plastic coating tastes worse than cat food. Have I ever told you how much I dislike Friskies? No. I just urinate and defecate on the scooters. That’s what I do. That’ll teach them a lesson. That’s what I believe. Go Dalmatians."
"Hello folks. Let me get right down to the point. I need more chicken. I love you guys. You treat me with a lotta love and respect. I just want more fucking chicken."
Being well known pet rat lovers, we received a call in late August asking us to adopt a friend of a friend of a friend's pet rat. The present owner was returning to college and his dorm does not allow pets of any sort. At first, he bequeathed the rodent to his elderly grandmother, but she proved to be horrified by the rat's presence in her home. She called our friend for advice. Our friend populates her Chatsworth home with husky, friendly dogs and has several cages of exotic birds she cherishes. Knowing our pet rat history, she immediately contacted us.
Poe and Manny
We'd been rat-less for two years. Manny died in 2009. He's still in the fridge awaiting burial. Sealed in plastic, he's right next to the ice cubes and above the frozen chicken stock. I miss him. I don't look at him or anything, but it affects our ice production.
I was assigned to drive out into the valley heat to adopt Buddy the Rat. Now I love the valley when it's cool weather, but I avoid it all summer long. Yes, there are exceptions such as friends, funerals, theatre, and a number of excellent restaurants, but they are exceptions. This adoption would be both a suitable and noble exception. Plus, I have air conditioning.
I had already decided to call him "Freddy." We'd never named a pet rat "Freddy" or even "Freddie." Also, "Freddy" was the name of one of my father's best friends. But mostly, it kind of rhymes with "Buddy," so hopefully that could help the new rat make the transition easier. Buddy the Dog did.
I entered our friend's dog and bird house and found respite from the raging heat outside. The dogs were happy to see me, but the birds could've cared less. I found our new pet rat living in a plastic litter box. The previous owner had given the rat the entire apartment to roam in and trained him to use a litter box. So, since leaving his owner, he had been living in his toilet. I couldn't wait to get him home to our huge pet rat cage, nicknamed the "Ritz" by the manufacturer. The Ritz has three levels above the litter with food and water sources above as well. Lots of room to run around and, most importantly, lots of air to breathe.
"The Ritz"
The high walls of the plastic litter box were topped by an improvised cardboard roof. Buddy/Freddy tried a few times to pop through the roof and explore the car, but I caught him and put a heavy object on top to keep it closed. I wasn't ready to play with him. He might have jumped out the window or gotten lost in the car. Not that I couldn't eventually find him, but training or not, he might've pooped all over the upholstery.
Freddy
Freddy is home with us now. He lives in the Ritz between our desks and has a full view of the television as well as each of us. For the most part, he toilets in his cage, but we've found a few errant poops beneath my desk chair. He rests in my hands, atop a towel for sanitary safety sake, receiving my massages. He crawls up my arms and rests on my shoulders. He crawls behind my head from shoulder to shoulder. He returns to my hands and gets the neck rubs he cherishes. Freddy is our new pet rat.
