Merry Christmas

I've noticed that lately, when Mom and Dad come home, they frequently smell of food that I don't recognize. When I climb up on their front to give them a breathalyzer (pretty low-tech; I just sniff their breath), I'm smelling food that I haven't had. But I can tell I want it. A lot. I tried prying Dad's mouth open to see if there was any left, but all I got was laughed at.

Turns out they've been hanging out on Devon Avenue and getting delicious masala tea and garlic naan and fragrant rice with various yummy stuff on it. I gave them a stern whistling in their ears, and now they always bring home a little rice or naan.

Breathalyzers work, people! Merry Christmas and happy Indian dinners for all!

(photo: drdrewhonolulu )

Holiday Update

Not much to report here. Dad brought a pie home from Bennison's Bakery and gave us the pie box. That was awesome! It's the perfect size to camp out in.

We're all mostly getting along better these days, too. Gerald and Squeaky are starting to understand -- after I've explained to them for the 10 billionth time -- that getting petted and rubbed by the Parents really feels GOOD. I caught Squeaky stretched out with her eyes slitted and her ears laid back the other morning, letting mom rub her forehead. She tried to play it off when I commented on it later, though.

Mom & I are good. The other night I laid down with mom, curled up against the palm of her hand, and groomed her fingers completely for her. We stayed like that for a good half hour. She thanked me and told me I was SUCH a good girl.

And you know, I really am!

Didn't hurt that her fingers totally smelled like food.

Oh! Speaking of food, have you guys tried this shit called "Cantaloupe"? Mom's been giving me some of this, and it is THA BOMB.

Gerald Mistakes Mom's Camera for a Granola Bar

This is excellent cinematic documentation of Gerald's game. First, she goes all "Can't hear you! I'm BLIND!" and then can't help herself and charges at Mom's camera and tries to eat it.



Much love to Mom for helping me upload the video to YouTube.

All About Gerald

OK, here's the thing about Gerald.

I love Gerald.  I really do.  She's soft and squishy and makes a really damn fine pillow for those days when you've just been running your ass off all night chasing after Gus to ensure that she doesn't break her neck hanging upside down from the hammock, or chasing after Squeaky ... well, just because Squeaky is a spaz and chasing her is hilarious.  After a hard night's work, I love nothing better than to stretch out on top of Gerald and sink into her chub and take a long warm nap.

But see, Gerald is selectively blind.  And this can be really annoying.  She runs and plays and hops with total confidence, but when it comes time for her to help do something constructive -- like cover up the food bowl with paper towels so that the 'rents can't see how much food is left in there -- she starts her Stevie Wonder swaying routine and goes all "I'M BLIND."  And of course mom and dad fall for this hook, line and sinker, and rub the top of her thick head and croon "poor widdle bean pumpkin."  Ha! Pumpkin yes, bean no.   Gerald eats enough to power a cage of 20 rats and has the figure to prove it.

So I guess what irks me is that 1) I know for a fact that Miss Piggy can see perfectly fine, and 2) she completely uses this "I'M BLIND" routine to her advantage.  And here is a prime example of the kind of crap she's pulling on a daily basis now:

The other night, we got our little treat dish of broccolis, whole-grain bread, edamame, carrots, and flax seeds.  I let Squeaky handle her own portions since Squeaky is actually a food snob and will sit there for half an hour inspecting and fretting over which cut of broccoli is prime and worthy enough to take into her muzzlepuff.  

Gus is pretty good about portions too.  Gus sort of ceased mental development back when she was a toddler and wants little more out of life than to squirm, explore, and work herself into dangerous positions so that people will come running and freaking out to rescue her.  She's not stupid, I'll grant her that.  She knows she's adorable and totally works her cute act on the humans to get away with murder.  The other day I actually heard Mom say, "She's so cute when she's being naughty!"  Please, gag me.  I'm gonna barf.

Gerald is the reason I have to work so hard at what I do.  And you know what?  I'm good at what I do!  Mom is always telling me I'm a good worker and a really responsible rat, and it's true.  I just want to keep the food evenly divided and rationed in case of catastrophe or invasion or war.  And part of being able to do this is having the other rats trust me.  Which they do.  Except Gerald.

The other day we were eating and I kept noticing that Gerald was being awfully active running back and forth from the food dish.  Usually she sits on top of it, drooling, her eyes Homer-Simpson vacant, going "muhhhhhhhhhh. food."  Curious as to what was exciting enough to her to warrant running her 1-pound ass all over the cage, I followed her downstairs and found her carrying piece after piece of broccoli and pasta to a small cave under the bottom ramp, and covering it up with Carefresh so nobody would see it.

Fool!  I went up to her and flipped her over on her back.  "What the heck are you doing?" I demanded.  "Are you a moron?  You're getting Carefresh dust and fibers all over the food.  MY food.  I keep that food portioned for the rest of you, and I can't do that if you're stealing it and hiding it from me.  Capishe?"

For a lardbutt, Gerald is amazingly strong.  She kicked me back and tried re-burying her stash.  So I flipped her over again.  "Look, ratbrain.  I'm being really patient with you.  Knock it off and quit hoarding food here.  For god's sake, we go to the bathroom down here."

This went on for about twenty minutes.  After twenty minutes, I was thoroughly vexed, and Gerald still wasn't getting it.  And then, right when I thought I was going to have to bite Miss Piggy's ass to teach her a lesson, we both looked over from where I was pinning her down, to see Gus and Squeaky stealing food back out of the stash and making off with it.  Gerald and I both looked at each other.  I let her up.

"We're not finished here.  I'm going to go check on them, but you remember what I told you.  I control the food supply."

Gerald started swaying.  "I'M BLIND."

GAH!  I can't take it anymore.  I need a nap.  

Dewds, I Just Had the Most AMAZING Dream.

I woke up from the most amazing dream this afternoon during my beauty sleep! Let me tell you about it. Listen closely. ...

60 Minutes

Well, it's been a while. I should let my adoring public know what I've been up to. Firstly, the peasants have been busy staging a revolt. It's my job as Food Manager to collect all of the food and treats out of the food bowl and stash them, then dole them out to the others as needed.

This policy works well and nobody goes hungry (I don't see you getting any thinner, GERALD), but the others are being really pissy about it lately and nipping the sides of my face. I have bald spots and scabs both cheeks. Jeezus, it's like the opposite of having really bad 70s-era Elvis sideburns. I need Ratty Rogaine.

The 'rents decided to keep me away from the others for a while (how they are going to manage their own food, I don't know. Gerald will weigh 10 pounds by the time I get back). So they took me out on the couch with them for something called 60 Minutes. As far as I can tell, this involves them watching the TV while I sit between them and get the area behind my ears massaged. BOOYEAH. I climbed up to the back of the couch, nestled into a soft yarn afghan, stretched out, and let the massaging commence. This act of communion has totally washed away Mom's sin of trying to put that harness on me, let me tell you. It was just THAT DAMN GOOD.

I was almost asleep when Dad asked me if I was ready for Andy Rooney. I didn't know what an Andy Rooney was, but apparently this is what happens. An old man with eyebrows longer than my tail came on the screen and started blabbering about how he has too many kitchen gadgets. Uh, WTF. Does this moron have something against food? So he starts showing all his kitchen gadgets, and complaining that he has not one, but TWO bread knives that he doesn't use (then send them here and I'll eat yer fuckin' bread, ya dope), then he complains that he has this grabber-thing and doesn't even know what it's for (it's obviously for grabbin, ya nitwit), and something about a honey dipper, maybe the bees could use it. Look, you dumbfuck, bees make honey. They don't care how you dip it out of a jar. For that matter, neither do I.

At some point, he shouted something about pee-cans, which as any self-respecting nut-eater knows is properly pronounced PE-CAHNS. Lord. Senile old men!

Then he began insulting italian food, which was the last straw. He's got two ravioli makers, and he's bitching about it! "If we wanted to eat ravioli, we'd go to an italian restaurant!" I don't know what horrified me more, his flippant attitude about the importance of pasta (oh my heavenly pasta, manna of the gods!) or the use of the collective "we", implying that he might be married, which in turn would mean that SOMEBODY MARRIED THIS TWAT. *sob*

This whole abortion of a TV segment was so preposterous that I turned and buried myself underneath the afghan for the remainder of it. The sound of his yapping still got through the layers of yarn, though. Geez. It's true, OK, I yap a lot. But I yap about relevant topics, and more importantly, I YAP TO MYSELF and don't inflict it on others. And now that I've been Andy Rooney'd, I've learned that this is a lesson others could stand to learn.

I've learned that life is full of ups and downs. Yes, sometimes there are wondrous surprises in store, such as an hour's worth of neck massage. But sometimes, you can get Andy Rooney'd afterward. C'est la vie.

Thelma Addresses the Blogosphere

THAT'S what I'm talking about

Look, people. Yes, I talk a lot. Yes, it's true that due to humans' substandard range of hearing, they can't hear my dulcet tones singing a song of siesta, micturation, alpha royalty, and snacks. And thus, it's true that I frequently look as though I am talking to myself and saying a lot of nothing.

But if the humans get in my face and say "Whatchoo talkin' about Thelma?!" one more time, I'm going to start biting some ass.

Little do they know...

Mom says that she wants me to stop dribbling everywhere or she's going to put a diaper on me. Well, that is completely out of the question.

I'm still fuming over this abominable harness/leash she brought home and guess who she decided to try to put it on? Gus? Nooo! Squeaky or Gerald? NO! No, she lured me into her lap with a particularly tasty-looking red piece of rotini. And then while I was innocently regarding this luscious morsel of rotini, she proceeded to try to strap this harness onto me. Well, I'm not bigger than Mom, but I do have a brain. I squealed and flopped over on my back and flailed my legs and pretended Mom was trying to kill me. Daddy immediately came to my rescue and yelled at Mom that she was humiliating and traumatizing me. YAY DAD! I got some extra treats out of that one.

But now that I know Mom is insane, I'm afraid she might really try to put a diaper on me. So for the past week I've had her convinced that I have not peed one single solitary drop. Little does she know that I've really just been holding Squeaky down and peeing on her head. :D

Oh and by the way peeps, this is a Q & A blog. Any questions?

Those Damn Kids

Don't get me wrong. It's not that I'm a bully. Or even that I have a bad attitude. In fact, as rats go, I'm pretty mellow. I enjoy the simple things in life: climbing up on my humans, peeing, kicking back with a twisty piece of pasta.

But those damn kids are hard to keep in line. I swear, sometimes they forget who's the biggest rat here. I gotta keep them in line sometimes by sitting on them. It's completely humane, you know, there's nothing mean about it. You flip them over on their back, you hold them down for a minute or two. But those damn kids! They shriek and yell and make it sound like I'm killing them. Then Mom and Dad get up and lecture *me*. (Squeaky is especially crafty about this. But I'll get to *her* at a later date.)

Sigh. And they always ask what I'm talking about, when my mouth moves, as if they can't guess. THOSE DAMN KIDS. *grumble grumble*