Rat B Grows a Personality; Questions about Birds

We've been having a bit of a cold snap, these last few days. The little green buds that had sprung up on the trees outside my window caught the chill, and now they're little brown buds. The seagulls have been occupying the city's awnings and ledges in groups, the better to conserve their body heat. And somewhere in that miserable puddle of cerebrospinal fluid that passes for Rat B's brain, a terrible idea has germinated.

Rat B, it seems, doesn't enjoy being cold. She doesn't find it fresh and bracing, as my mother might say. All she can think about is getting warm again. She frets and footers, nosing about disconsolately for the cozy nook she believes must be waiting for her, just underneath Rat A--or just under my skin, apparently.

That's right. Rat B "thinks"* if it's warm on the outside of my skin, it must be at least twenty degrees warmer on the inside. Now, technically speaking, she's right. Practically speaking, however, rats are not encouraged in any sub-dermal sorts of areas. Rat B, of course, doesn't understand this, and won't understand it, either, no matter how many times I drag her out from under my shirt. She just dives right back in, and sets to work on my belly. Scratch-scratch-scratch; nose-nose-nose--and then she gets her teeth in on the action, trying out a few little test-bites. That's the limit of my patience, right there. I give her a little pinch and a little lecture:

(Pinch.) "Rat B, you're not supposed to do that. How would you like it?" (Tickle-tickle-tickle.) "Tickle-tickle-tickle!"

Rat B goes all wobbly. She loves it. Even the pinch. And two minutes later, she's following my hand around, trying to dig a hole through that. I am tempted to pull her tail, or her ears, or both. Rat B is a fair-weather friend. I don't like Rat B on cold days. If I must be subjected to the walking (brain)-dead, I'd rather have them lying about quietly festering than making droolfaced attempts on my innards.

It got really hot once the cold snap ended. I'm not entirely sure how hot, seeing as I'm without a thermometer, and all, but it's mighty hot. Rats A and B have become living hoses, constantly sucking in water at one end and spraying it out the other. One is tempted to give 'em a good squeeze before taking them out of their cage, with a view to avoiding accidents.

The heat, it seems, has also baked Rat B's brain. Ordinarily, this would be a bad thing, but since it was only half-baked to start with, it's now simply...done. A pleasant golden-brown, if you will. Crusty on the edges, and fluffy-riz inside. Positively appetizing. The rampant bellydigging has mellowed to a soft and insistent nosing, and a burning desire to occupy the hollow space between shoulder and collarbone. The suicidal jumps into the great unknown have been replaced with a slight (but disturbing) tendency to bump into walls. An unhealthy fascination with earholes (both mine and Rat A's) has been observed, and a certain hunger for whatever might be found under the human fingernail. She gets her tongue right in there, slurping around like a pool-cleaner. I wonder if she's disappointed when there's nothing more appetizing on the menu than soap residue, or if it's the soap she's looking for. It's grapefruit-scented soap. It might taste good to rats. I don't know. It doesn't taste good to me.

The dishrag passivity is also a thing of the past. One can no longer twist Rat B's body into undignified positions and leave her like that, nor yet tie knots in her tail. Rat B has learned how to struggle (if you can call swapping the positions of her head and her tail back and forth till the crisis is over "struggling", anyway).

I like her better thus: quiet, but not in an unsettling, owl-flight sort of way. I like these occasional sparks of awareness that twinkle in her eyes. Note to self: when confronted with a rodent of unusual brainlessness, freeze 24-72 hours, then thaw. Enjoy marginally brainier animal companion.

From the Department of Strange Additions:

Notice anything odd about my shopping list?

Salami
Bread
Fresh peaches
Plain yog.
Frozen fruit
Soda water
Cream cheese
Bismuth salicylate
Bags of wet mice
Dishwasher detergent
Celery
Creme fraiche
Triscuit crackers

(And I don't mean the fact that it says "bismuth salicylate" instead of "Pepto-Bismol", for any smartasses who may be in attendance.)

From the Complaints Department:

Dear God, this heartburn! What did I eat? I think there's a hole in my oesophagus.

From the Department of Bizarre Munitions:

No news on the exploding toad front today. Malignant, liverpecking birds are still the prime contenders, when it comes to placing the blame. The birds are being blamed, that is--they don't get to point the finger, themselves. Or the wing, or whatever it is that birds point when they're feeling accusatory. Inquiring minds have prepared a list of questions, for any scientists imaginative folks who may be reading:

1) If bird wounds are responsible for the toadbomb epidemic, how is it that nobody's managed to catch a bird in the act? Red-beaked, sort of thing? In flagrante de-peck-to? In thousands of explOADsions, you'd think the culprit would've been spotted at least once. Could it be that birds have developed some sort of distance-pecking technology, or learned to swim underwater?

2) The explOADsions started in Hamburg, but then they spread. Yeah, they're in Denmark now, did you hear? Do you think there's a malicious packbawky network, by which far-flung peck colonies share new military innovations?

3) Why do birds suddenly appear, every time you are near?

4) Oops. I mean, why do birds eat toad livers, but not toad eyes, toad intestines, toad hearts, or toad feet? I mean, I'm not a bird, or anything, but they all look equally appetizing to me. Which is to say, not appetizing at all. Equally unappetizing, then. Also, how do they know where to find the liver? Is it a temperature-based calculation? And if so, do they carry tiny thermometers on toad-sploding missions?

5) Should bird-owners be afraid for their own livers, or is this a toad-only concern?

6) Would it be considered racial profiling if German (and now Danish) birds were held at the border for questioning during migration season?

7) Roast crow: tasty or tough?

From the Department of Frivolous Lawsuits:

Squawkery-peckery
Virgil Keys' legal team:
Eagles with spurious
Harvard degrees!

Regent most aquiline,
Avian Majesty
Plenipackbawkary**--
Call 'em off, please!

From the Department of Too Many Late Nights:

Plenipackbawkary?

This post has exceeded its silly word quota. Time for bed.

* When referring to the goings-on inside Rat B's head, quotation marks must always be used, lest the reader get the erroneous impression that Rat B is capable of thought.

** Many-birded. All-birdful. Like "plenipotentiary", but with birds.