Dwelling of Creepy Noises

It's odd, not having Stella about. I don't like it. All the creepy night-noises, all the creakings and groanings and whisperings, which I used to attribute to her, now creak and groan and whisper unexplained. When I think I hear her claws on the lino, it's only the blinds in the wind. Her whiffly breathing in my ear, that's my dressing-gown tying my hair into knots. Her tail thrumming the bars of the cage, well, I haven't the foggiest what that is. Rattling plumbing, perhaps? Window cleaners roping down from on high? Stella's uneasy ghost, looking for dates and pecans? There are squeakings, as well, and sneaky wee rustlings. There are rattles and hisses and thuds. All these noises, and nothing to make them. No, I don't like it at all.

It turns out both of her parents died young. I didn't know that before. I might have expected it, then. Not, I suppose, that it would've done me any good, or Stella.

People keep asking if there'll be another rat, and I imagine there will be. It seems a bit callous, replacing her and all, but there are the creepy noises to consider. There's got to be someone to blame them on. After Stella, an ordinary rat'll seem a bit silly and naff: what, no footbiting? No four-foot vertical leaps to the countertop? No mangled trouserlegs? No torn sleeves? No vicious tailslaps round the earholes? And how can the faint squealing of R. norvegicus hope to compete with Stella's full-throated warble? You can't even let an ordinary rat loose in the kitchen; next thing you know, it'll be wedged under the dishwasher, gnawing the pipes. Stella, she wouldn't fit anywhere dangerous. Oh, she'd try for the vulnerable underbelly of the refrigerator, all right, but she'd hardly get her nose in.

There won't be any more pouched rats in the Rat's Nest, though. One shouldn't cage such a creature. Stella, she had as much entertainment as I could provide, but she was always looking for her real life. Floors frustrated her: she only scraped the surface when she tried to dig, or her claws would get caught in the carpet. Other times, she'd jump all over me, nipping my arms in an encouraging sort of way. I was supposed to do something in return; I'm certain of it. I never worked out what it was. She'd run round in circles, chasing her tail, then hurl herself at the nearest breakable object with a shriek of fury. There'd be shredding and tearing and debris in the air--then the cloud would settle, and she'd be sat sitting there with that grin on her face. "Look what I did!

Such a wee mischief, that one. I thought she hated me at first, the way she'd rip up all my stuff, but that was just how she had fun. She'd laugh, sometimes, as she did it. "Look at me ripping your nightgown! Hee-hee-hee! It's the only one you've got! Ho-ho-ho! There goes the bodice! Hee-hee-ho-ho!"

Scaring me, too, that was another of her hobbies. For such a great clumsy beast, she sure had the tiptoeing thing down pat. There I'd be, typing away, and suddenly--bouf! The screen would explode in a pattern of gibberish, Stella's message to the world:

"asud8g0- /---," she'd say.

"Gerroff," I'd say, shoving her off the keyboard. A few minutes later, she'd be sneaking up behind me again, belly pressed low to the floor.

Then, there were nights when I'd wake up with my rat on my head, or nestling between my feet. How she got out of her cage, I'll never know, but there she'd be.

"Stella," I'd groan, "sod off." She'd skeek at me till I got up. See, that's devotion. Get a Norway rat to do that! Even Giggerota never did that, and she was a rat among rats.

And now there are unexplained noises, and the garbage-disposal gets all the leftovers. I've forgotten how to cook for just one--there are always leftovers. I don't know how many mince pies to make, how many chips to shake out of the bag. I made scones the other day, and half of them turned stale in the fridge. Second-day scones aren't worth having. (The time before that, Stella polished off her scone first, and invaded my tea. She upset the whole pot. It was everywhere. There was tea in her whiskers, tea in her eyes--oh, and lots of tea on me. One's always in white at times like these, eh?)

The banging, that's the bathroom door rattling in its frame.

The picky noises, those are from the toilet dripping through a sock.

The distant, muffled whistling, that's the Skytrain sighing in its tracks.

Stella....