Rat B's Slippery Slope

I shouldn't have eaten that expired butter, this afternoon. That butter was responsible for everything that happened afterwards. That butter was the lubricant on a very slippery slope, which Rat B slid down in a blaze of glory. I'm sure she had fun. It must've been like a giant carnival for her. I can just imagine how it went, in that flat little head of hers:

"... ... ... ... ...! !!! !!!!!!"

It was the butter, see. I was awake one minute, telling Rat B about the heartburn it had given me (It's given me heartburn, Rat B!), and the next minute, well, I just slid down that buttergreased slope, myself, and straight into dreamland. (Zzzzzz.) And I can only speculate, from that point on. Did Rat B note my lidded eyes, and embark knowingly on her campaign of destruction, or did she seize her chance all unknowing? Did she wait a while, to see if I'd wake up and put her away, or leap into action the instant my hands went limp? Did she piss on anything important--or was it all in the attitude behind the piss?

It must've taken her a very long time to tear up my whole shirt, but it seemed like no time at all. I didn't even realize I'd slept, when I first came around. I thought I'd only dozed an instant, as one might do on the bus, between stops. And Rat B, she was back where she'd started, nestled in the cave of my cupped hands.

"This heartburn, Rat B," I groaned. "Right here, under the...what the fuck?" I was rubbing my chest, and that's when I felt it. The thing Rat B did while I was asleep. Rat B is a very bad rat.

My shirt had been reduced to--well, have you ever seen a piece of muslin that's been caught in a sewing machine? It goes all that picked-over way, full of tiny holes and chewed-up bits, and bunchy parts where single threads have been pulled to the breaking point. My shirt was just like that, only less coherent. I sat up, and lost a drift of scraps and fuzzies. There were some black bits in with the green bits: remnants of my right bra-cup.

"Rat B!" I croaked, grabbing her by the head. "Let me see in your mouth! Oh, you! Oh, you idiot! Look at this!" Her teeth were all snarled up with thread, and, nestled on her tongue, I could see something shiny. "What have you got? For the love of God, don't swallow!" I squeezed her jaw to make her open wide, and discovered a button in there, firmly affixed to her teeth. She must've nipped it off with the thread still attached, and proceeded to get all bollixed up with it. Bloody lucky thing, too. A rat could choke to death on something like that. I extracted it gently, being careful not to poke the inside of her mouth.

"Rat B," I said, "you've got to stop with this biting nonsense. What were you going to do, build yourself a nest? You're too stupid for nest-building. Every time, Rat B--no, look at me! Don't look at Rat A. Rat A hasn't got anything for you. Rat A won't help you now. Every time, Rat B, every time you think I'm not looking, you're pick-pick-picking at my shirts. And every time, I look in your mouth, and it's full of thread. Other rats, see, they spit that out. That's why you've got your lips behind your teeth, isn't it? So you can chew stuff without it getting into your mouth. What if you were chewing your way through a lead-lined coffin, eh? You'd suck down all that lead, wouldn't you? You'd be a pencil, Rat B! A pencil!" I unraveled a particularly long fiber from her top teeth. "This is the stupidest thing I've ever seen."

Rat B squeaked.

"What, you don't like this? You don't like my horrible ol' fingers in your mouth? You don't like me picking your teeth for you, is that it? Well, newsflash, baby: I don't like you picking my shirt. Look at this shirt! I always hated this shirt, Rat B, but it was one of the only summer shirts I had. How would you like it if I...if I shaved your back? Why, I oughtta--"

Rat B hung her head and looked sad.

"Oh, don't try that sad-rat act on me! Didn't I just save your life? You had a button in your mouth, and that's the thanks I get?"

Rat B turned her back on me.

"Oh, so that's how it is!"

She ground her teeth anxiously.

"Will you turn back round if I give you a honey drop?"

I crackled a packet of rat treats. Rat B came bounding back, all affection, all of a sudden. Typical. These rats are all the same: always hungry, always hopeful.

"Doesn't that taste better?" I asked her, watching her chow down. "Better than some old shirt? You've always gotta...hey!"

Rat B, having scoffed her honey drop, was picking away at my shirt. I scooped her up and put her away, in disgrace. I don't think she realized there was disgrace involved, though. She was jumping about like a dog with a stick, thumping and bouncing and nosing Rat A into action.

It was almost like having Stella back, just for a moment.