A month or so ago, presumably realising that the latest (or even earliest) PlayStation, Xbox or Nintendo, would not be forthcoming, nor a pony or a puppy, my son asked me for a rat.
A rat? For a moment I forgot every endearing rip-roaring rodent adventure I ever saw, from Stuart Little to Ratatouille. All I could see were those beady little glow-in-the-dark eyes and that little whip of a tail.
My lips were on the verge of forming “NOOO” in the style of the bodyguard as he takes the bullet for the Prez, when Nicholas stopped me in my tracks. “But Mommy, “ he said, “Michael Jackson sang a song about a boy and his rat”.
And so he did. Long, long ago, when dinosaurs roamed the earth, he was a cute kid with an Afro who sang the song about his rodent pal. The lyrics move me to tears to this day…
Ben, the two of us need look no more
We both found what we were looking for
With a friend to call my own
I’ll never be alone
And you my friend will see
You’ve got a friend in me
Of course, right there and then my heart melted, not only at the memory, but at the affordability of my son’s simple want. So much so that we decided that I would also acquire a friend like Ben. Except of course, this much was decided upfront: Nicholas’s rat would be called Dicky, while mine would be known fondly as Oreo.
So off we went to Barrie’s Pet shop in Westdene, where Nicholas could pick and choose to his little heart’s content between medium rats at R23 and big rats at R45 each. (There were also supposed to be baby rats at R15, but they were sold out.) Long story short, we settled for two young medium-sized gentlemen. (Please note: This was to be a strictly same sex arrangement. The last thing I needed in my backyard, or front room for that matter, was a rat farm.)
The whole lovely lot – Dicky and Oreo, a bag of food and a bag of sawdust for the bottom of the cage – cost R78; R23 per rat, R12 for the food (which lasts for months) and R20 for the sawdust.
As for the cage, you’re probably looking at a couple of hundred bucks or even more if you’re looking at a state-of-the art cutting edge rat palace. But then you’re obviously not looking at charity shops where you can pick one up, undoubtedly dropped off by a parent relieved that their child is past the rodent stage, for R50.
Of course the fun didn’t stop when we got home. Truth be told, it deepened to a singular kind of contentment where and when I expected it least. Rats, they say, are quite clever, and I sensed this. Looking into Dicky’s little red eyes and Oreo’s slightly more brown ones, I could see that the lights were on and the rats were at home (unlike hamsters which, I suspect, merely get hired for their looks).
Watching Dicky and Oreo running here and there, nibbling on popcorn, huddling under my dressing gown collar, snouts all a wriggle with something I could swear was curiosity, I felt that they were about to see what friends they had in Nicholas and me.
By now, hopefully, they also realise right down to the bottom of their ratty little hearts, that we do care, that they’re wanted, more or less, give and take, everywhere, and that they know they’ve got a place to go. Or should I rather say, a place to stay.
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