Rodent's Revenge

Six o'clock this morning: Stella comes out of her cage, squeaking. This is weird. She's just standing there in the middle of the floor, squeaking at me. It's not her normal squeak, either. Her normal squeak is a demanding chirp, harsh and rude and aggressive. This is more of a high-pitched whine--eeeeeee, eeeee, eeeee, eeeee. This is abnormal. I'm worried.

I get down on the floor with her--"What do you want?"

"Eeeeee," goes Stella, wriggling her tail around.

"What's the matter with you, then?" I get closer, peering suspiciously at her feet. Maybe she's gone and stubbed her toe, or caught her leg in the bars of her cage. Maybe she's hurt. Maybe she's--

--seized me forcefully by the cheeks, and is now licking her big, disgusting tongue, with which she has recently cleaned her genitals, all over my lips. I struggle free, crabassing across the carpet. She follows me, squealing loudly now. She bounds up my chest, going in for the smooch. I knock her back. She surges up. I crawl under the computer desk, and am cornered.

"Shoo!", I go, throwing a FedEx pouch at her. It misses by a mile, but does the trick, anyway: now, she wants the FedEx pouch instead of me. She chases it under the bookcase, and enthusiastic shredding commences. When a suspicious silence descends, ten minutes later, I check on her and discover she's built a miniature nest under there. "Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad," I mumble, but I don't really mean it. And she isn't really listening, although she swivels her ears in my general direction.

My rat and I do not have a relationship based on mutual love, trust, caring, and respect. We are, indeed, uncertain of the meanings of said words, as applied to one another.

Love (n): Not murderous hatred --OR-- a bite that doesn't break the skin.

Trust (n): The act of putting food or other items in the cage when the rat is awake, and ready to launch a guerilla attack on one's arm --OR-- the act of allowing oneself to be lifted down from a high shelf, believing that one will not be squeezed, pinched, or returned to one's cage.

Caring (n): Similar to love, but with a little more scratching and kicking.

Respect (n): The absence of biting, spitting, kicking, scratching, shouting, obnoxious squeaking at inappropriate hours, theft of nesting materials/blankets/small, valuable, and shiny items from around the house, and other objectionable conduct. Also, the resisting of certain unsavoury compulsions, such as rodent French kissing, public genital slurping, and, on my side, pulling a tail left incautiously protruding from the cage and laughing like a hyena.

Respect, it seems, is the element most conspicuously lacking in our household. Today, I've been the victim of a ratty Frencher, endured egregious floor-spittage, and cleaned an inappropriate nest out from under my bookcase. I won't have that rat expanding on its territory. Colonialism is out. There will be no outlying regions of Stella-ness.

Speaking of expanding borders, I think Stella's getting bigger. Not just fatter, but longer, as well. Stuffing her back in her cage today was like wrestling with an anaconda: no sooner would I get one end under control than the other would slither disquietingly from my grasp. Then, her tail would, with astonishing accuracy, find its way up my nose. I was going to put in a really tasteless metaphor at this point, comparing a struggle with Stella to having one of those stomach bugs that causes simultaneous vomiting and diarrhea, but that would've been inappropriate, and I would never say anything inappropriate, me.

Here's how the story ends, though:

Six-thirty this morning: I've just been molested by a rat, which is now lowering property values under my bookcase with its untidy housekeeping practices. I'm soaping my lips every ten minutes or so (every time I think about where Stella's tongue has been), and am generally unamused. Revenge is in order. You can't let these rats think they've got the upper hand, see. Once they think they're boss, they'll do any old thing.

So I wait. I watch. I put on a soothing record--the Trout Quintet. Soon, Stella's ears start drooping, and she snuggles up with her FedEx pouch and goes to sleep. That's when I make my move. I creep up stealthily, using the couch for cover. Every time my unsuspecting rat stirs, I freeze in place till she quiets down. I almost feel sorry for her. She's sleeping so peacefully in there, having a good dream. Her little feet are twitching, and every once in a while, she lets loose with a contented chirrup.

Oh, yeah, I gloat. You're going down. I let a greasy margarine grin oil its way over my face. I am the embodiment of the word "gleeful"--a sort of avatar of glee. I snake out my hand, slowly, slowly, s-l-o-w-l-y, till it's right next to her head. I press my thumb and forefinger together. I stop, smirk, savour the moment, then--SNAP!--I snap my fingers right in her ear.

"SKEEEEEEEEK!", goes Stella. She tries to bite my fingers, but she's groggy and I'm way too fast. She bounds angrily around the room, stomping on everything in her path. I stand on the couch, avoiding her teeth. Soon enough, she runs out of steam, and I pack her back into her cage. Vengeance complete. That'll teach her, the smoochy wee pervert.