Gluttonous Cricetid

Stella has grown rather bold, just lately:

POTATO SKINS

One night last month, I ordered some soggy, greasy, manky potato skins from Boston Pizza. They're absolutely disgusting, and I love 'em. These things are a heart attack in appetizer form, laden with slimy cheese, bacon bits, butter, and sour cream--everything, that is, which a junk-loving rat would want to eat. The instant I started nibbling, Stella seized the bars of her cage and set up a dreadful rattling.

"Stop that," I mumbled, mouth full.

Stella began to squeal noisily. I ignored her. Frustrated, she started butting the floor with her nose and scrabbling with her back feet, screeching all the while.

"You're kidding!" I said. "All this for a bite of potato?"

She sat back on her haunches and cocked her head eagerly, burbling in the back of her throat. I patted half a potato skin free of grease and poked it through to her. She was upon it in a flash, gulping it down in huge bites. Not only did she squeal the whole time she was eating it, but she continued to chirp happily all the way back to her nest, and intermittently during her evening nap. It was nice to see her in such high spirits, but I'm not sure I like her eating junk food. I suppose potatoes are healthy enough, but she shouldn't be having all that melted cheese. She's portly enough at it is.

GOLDFISH CRACKERS

Having fed a hungry Stella a plate of tomatoes with fat-free dill dressing and feta cheese (I've noticed she's more likely to eat her veggies if they've got dressing on 'em), I sat down to watch The Sopranos. (I've got a thing for James Gandolfini. Not a huge thing, like with Clint Eastwood, of course--just a wee thing, like you get for cute deli clerks and cabbies with nice smiles. You'd slap 'em away if they tried to hit on you, but as long as they stay nice and quiet, they're good to look at.) Anyhow, as I was saying, I'd stuck the telly on, and cracked open a box of Goldfish. "This is nice," I said to myself--"all settled in for a lazy evening."

As if on cue, Stella started throwing huge, messy chunks of tomato out of her cage. They splatted wetly on the floor, leaving gooey clumps of seeds and indecorous smears of dressing.

"What are you doing?" I shrieked. "Messy creature! Stop it!" I leapt up and got to work jamming the tomatoes back in. As fast as I could push them in, Stella nosed them out again. "Eat your tomatoes! Eat your tomatoes!", I nagged, sounding exactly like my mother. Stella bit my thumbnail right down to the quick, and began licking the detached piece furiously. She looked most disappointed to find it inedible.

"Oh," I sighed. "It's the Goldfish, isn't it?" I shook out a few into my hand and fed them to her carefully. She stuffed them in her pouches and spirited them off to her nest, then returned to the serious business of tomatoing my white carpet.

The next morning, I found the Goldfish in a neat little pile on my floor, as well. I'd swear Stella was smirking as she watched me discover them. She sat on her little shelf and chirped merrily as I vacuumed the floor.

ALL MY BELOVED POTATOES

The other day, Gail alerted me to a more reliable alternative to Urban Fare: Stong's Market. With Urban Fare, you've got to order by telephone, and you don't find out what your order's going to cost till you get the bill. As if that wasn't bad enough, they're forever bringing the wrong thing (big messy balls of lettuce instead of shredded lettuce, apple juice instead of apple cider, olive oil instead of canola oil--it's neverending!).

So, on Friday night, I ordered from Stong's, using their lovely Internet-ordering service. I mean, this site is brilliant--they've even got pictures of the food, so you know precisely what it is you're getting. For the first time since I left Sweden, I got my hands on a particular type of salami I like. I couldn't get it from Urban Fare, because I didn't know what it was called. I got proper apple cider, delicious sourdough bread, bags of shredded lettuce, and a bunch of frozen dinners. I'm partial to the Swanson chicken ones, with the wee compartment of nasty mashed potatoes. (I was never allowed to eat that sort of garbage as a kid, so I can't resist it now.)

This afternoon, I heated up a frozen dinner, meaning to eat it while working. I always nibble down the chicken first, then the corn, then the potato. I have to save the potato for last, of course. (I throw the dessert away--I hate sweet stuff.) Unfortunately for me, I'd no sooner taken the first bite of chicken when there was a stirring from Stella's nest. She charged out, squealing at the top of her lungs. I didn't have to be a giant rat to get the message: "Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!"

Being a hopeful sort, I scooped out the dessert first, a sticky, treacly cherry-syrup sort of thing. I haven't the foggiest what it's meant to be. I thought it might be appealing to a rat, though, and not too fattening, either. Stella snapped up that cherry glop in two seconds flat and redoubled her squealymouthed efforts.

"What is it now? Greedy creature! I'm feeding you later. It's not your dinner time." It wasn't, either. Stella usually sleeps till seven or eight, then gets up in time for a nosh. It wasn't even two o'clock when I got out my frozen dinner. But Stella ignored my admonishments, jumping all over the place and making angry, guttural noises in the back of her throat. She makes that kind of noise when she thinks I'm denying her something she's entitled to.

"You can't have my dinner," I told her, "but, in the spirit of compromise, you can run around while I eat it." I opened the cage door and let her out. She promptly hurled herself at me, no doubt smelling food on my hands. "Gerroff," I yelped, shoving ineffectually at her. A long and vicious rat attack followed. I survived unbitten; my purple hoodie shirt, alas, did not. In the end, Stella got my shirt for her nest, my potatoes for her belly, and some of my corn, to boot. I got to eat the chicken, because Stella doesn't eat much meat.

BAD RAT!

This rat has become very rowdy and grabby. She loves hot food, and will stop at nothing to get some. Recently, she has begun turning up her nose at fruit if it isn't mixed with yogurt or cottage cheese, and disdaining uncooked vegetables unless they're covered in dressing. She won't eat oatmeal without honey, or scrambled eggs without tomatoes and cheese. She has been demanding bites of everything I prepare for my own consumption, and trying to invade my kitchen cabinets. Furthermore, she has graduated from biting my feet to nipping that whole foot-ankle-calf area, in there, and tearing at the cuffs of my trousers. I'm reluctant to discipline her, since she seems much happier than she did when she first arrived, but at the same time, I haven't got that many pairs of trousers. Making extra food in anticipation of rodent plate-raiding is also a pain.

I have resolved to tolerate her behaviour for now, but if she adopts any further pesky habits, I will have to...to send her off to ratty boot camp, or something. At this precise moment, she is regarding me balefully and, I fear, plotting her next wicked trick. (I tremble.)