My Lazy Rat

It's hot today, beastly hot. Stella has shoved all the paper out of her cage, and is sprawled out like a dead thing in the corner. She's got her tail tangled up in her hind legs, and one fist stuffed in her mouth. Her fat belly has squashed itself into a sort of gelatinous pool. If it wasn't for the twitching of her ears, you'd take her for an ex-rat.

She's been sleeping like that all afternoon. The only time she even raised her head was when some noisy car went by on the street, windows open, blaring hip-hop. An insistent, obnoxious beat filled our ears. I looked for a pillow to pull over my head. Stella stuck out her tongue and cracked her eyelids. The car boomed away in the intersection, waiting for a green light.

"If the wind changes," I told Stella, putting up my hood to cover my ears, "your face will stay like that. Arseface forever."

Stella lowered her head and sucked her knuckles. Before the car was fairly out of earshot, she was sleeping again, fist in mouth--and so she stayed. The worst of the heat has gone out of the air now, but she's still there, slobbed out like a sloth. It's fine with me if she stays in her cage all day. As long as she's in there, she isn't hairing up my carpet. With the advent of the warmer weather, she's been shedding everywhere. My vacuum is clogged with greasy furlumps. Disgusting. I can't imagine how a rat like that can survive in its native Africa--the minute the temperature rises, it flops on its arse, waiting to be scooped up and eaten. (People do, too--eat giant pouched rats, that is. Fry 'em up with a little butter, stick a crabapple in their mouths, and nestle them in a crunchy bed of lettuce. Mmmmm. Delicious. I imagine they have leftovers, too, the day after: giant rat sandwiches, giant rat kebabs, giant rat casseroles, giant rat fritters, and, if they're on a bit of a Chinese kick, giant rat stir fries.)

I wonder if Stella knows how tasty she would be in a Greek stew, swimming in tomatoes, gravy, and feta cheese? Oh, and with a side of egg noodles. One can't forget the egg noodles. And salad, and red wine, and strawberries for dessert. Man, with a rat that size, I could have stew for five days, or sandwiches for a week. Good thing I'm so fond of her. I hope she realizes that, too. But for my good will, into the pot she goes.* Rat fricasée! Rat curry! Rat Wellington! Popcorn rat-noses, lightly breaded. Rat soup, rat cold-cuts, and rat tartare. Rat-liver pâté, seasoned with garlic, basil, and thyme, spread on fluffy Italian bread. Rat-tongue sushi. Sweetbreads à la rat, served on mint leaves, with chilled ice-wine for later. Rat-tail quiche, ratbone bread, pickled rat hearts, and rat-eye jelly. Rat-kidney pie. Festive rat-bladder balloons, filled with helium and dyed bright blue. Fatty rat cracklings; crispy vol-au-vents with rat gravy. Fried rat feet, dripping with herb butter and rosemary. Roast rack of rat. Little rat-fur hats, with matching gloves. No rat-part wasted.

Nah. Appetizing as those things may sound (with the possible exception of the rat tartare), one look at Stella would dissuade even the greediest gourmand. Anyone taking so much as the tiniest bite of that would hardly have time to taste it before the massive influx of fat and grease caused their heart to explode. Man, she looks obscene, all splayed out like that, with her feet sticking up sadly from her great lardy body. What a horrible, lumpen thing! She reminds me of one of those puffer fish you get, the ones that can blow themselves up like beachballs, except...squashy.

Oddly, she doesn't feel squashy at all. When you pick her up, she's hard and stringy, all muscle. It's just when she stretches out for a nap, she goes all soft. I'm torn between feeding her up and putting her on a crash diet.

On a not-entirely-unrelated note, as soon as I have money, I must get a new sketchbook. That sloppy ol' rat of mine is just begging to be drawn, but the only paper I have is the expensive stuff, too good to waste on crappy life-drawings. Oh, and printer paper, but I need that to print stuff.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I shall go and poke Stella right in her bloated belly with my finger. Ha, ha.

* I would never, ever dream of eating Stella (or any other rat, no matter how fat or lazy). The following rat-menu is written purely in jest.