Once long ago, I was plopped on the sofa watching TV’s campy “Battlestar Galactica” — the one with Richard Hatch and Dirk Benedict that face-planted as a “Star Wars” wannabe — crosslegged in my bedtime uniform of briefs and oversized T, when my pet rat Rhonda scampered over and bit me on the scrotum.
I yowled like a wounded caribou dying in the wilderness. Tears welled. My brother folded over laughing. He guffawed. Indeed, he chortled.
Rhonda, a sleek black and white beauty, just sat there amid the commotion, blinking, wondering: What in the blankety-blank is this all about? Her boyfriend, the big brown bristly Ralph the rat, with the pendulous pink gonads, was probably cowering behind the bookcase, thinking: me next?
With blind curiosity and razor-sharp incisors, rats will bite anything — computer cords to concrete, earrings to ear lobes — so the question of why she did this is not up for discussion. She’s a rat. She came. She saw. She chomped.
Still: Did it look delicious? Was stuff hanging out of my underwear? No, the rodent bit straight through the cotton fabric to nip my nards. Excuse the unseemly imagery. Hey, I was, like, 10.
That’s what rats do. I once tried to kiss a later pet rat, Becky, on the head and she took a piece out of my upper lip. Like Great White sharks, rats bite first just to see if it’s edible and ask questions later. My nether regions apparently weren’t tasty; Rocky Mountain oysters were not on the menu this evening. I was both offended and relieved.
So, yes, anything. Rats will bite it, if not necessarily eat it. My many pet rats over time have enjoyed such delicacies as: shirts, expensive jeans, shoes, books, fingers, pens, a tube of Super Glue (which was miraculously empty), drum sticks, plumbing (thanks, Tammy, for the kitchen flood), plants, watches, cockroaches, geckos, toothbrushes, remote controls, and so on.
Food-wise, they will eat everything, from broccoli and beer to garbanzos and garden snails. The rat’s promiscuous palate is boundless. They have the diet of the gods, or Elvis.
Does this make rats demonic? Or just ravenous? Or really dumb? I say all three, particularly when I recall how Becky bit into the Super Glue tube, which again was somehow empty. (If not, it would have killed her quickly, yet with maximum agony.)
And still my adoration for pet rats — so-called fancy rats, or Rattus norvegicus domestica — is limitless. Despite the odd attack on my innocent childhood flesh and their unsettling Darwinian rapacity, pet rats are cuddly love bugs — clean, clever, clingy and sociable. They eat like Caligula, but still.
Long ago I wrote a gushy paean to the pet rat, noting how: “They play and wrestle, come when called, chill on your shoulder, groom with OCD avidity, swim, delight in belly rubs lying on their back.”
It’s all true, though I skimmed the creature’s staggering insatiability. Here I include a photo of Becky sharing pizza with my pal Nicole. She is clearly trying to carry off the entire wedge.
The rat had free rein, skittering right up Nicole’s leg and onto her shoulder for a big bite of pie. Rats are fun like that, looping about the house, exploring, finding mysteries and mischief, always returning to you for warm companionship. Just be sure to rinse any chicken grease from your fingers, unless you want a nasty manicure. And gents — well, you know.