I dipped back into the world of rat ownership while still living in London, since the small living areas I was constricted to prevented me from being able to get a larger pet. Rats are sweet, clever, and need lots of love and a big cage with lots of toys plus plenty of free-roaming time – but obviously, my poky bedroom in my shitty Ilford flat was massive to my three girls. Sylvia, Beatrice and Ariadne: RIP, my little London lifesavers.
Anyway, last week I was having a bad one mentally. Usually, this means one of three things: I’m going to self-harm by cutting myself, I’m going to self-harm by binge-eating/drinking, or I’m going to do a different kind of self-harm by buying something I know very well I can’t afford and will regret almost immediately.
I chose the latter, drove to the nearest shopping area, got out of the car and realised the moment had gone. It’s key when you have that kind of mental wobbles that you make sure there’s a journey of time between the decision to do something and the actual action – gives you space to work out whether it’s really what you want to do. And I do not want more credit card debt, so I decided to just wander into Pets at Home to grab some food and toys for my softbois.
There were two rattos alone in a tank, and I have walked past so many ratbags in my time (unwillingly, granted, but I don’t approve of the way pet shops do business with live animals) but these two just – I don’t know. You know love at first sight? That, but with rats.
I ummed and ahhed for about fifteen minutes until a shop assistant who had been eyeing me carefully asked if I needed help. I think I said “YES” a little too forcefully, and meaning it in every sense of the response.
The guy who got them out for me thought they were boys. They are not boys. They do not have baubles that are the size of their heads. They are tiny, smol girls – and I had to get them. I put them both in the carrier I had just picked up from the vets after having left it with two old boys rainbow bridge-bound (RIP Mr Sprinkles and Dr Pie). Then I went straight to the McDonalds Drive-Thru and got my two new daughters a Happy Meal, because, as I said before, I was having a mental breakdown.
I haven’t had girl rats for a while, because my last two weren’t getting what they needed from me and I passed them on to another owner. I was absolutely heartbroken and totally regretted it, but when I floated the idea of taking them back because the new owner hadn’t even put them in a good-sized cage yet, the owner blocked me. I actually feel sick just writing about it.
That’s why I refuse to give up even my two Skitty Bois, Mr Reginald Toast and Archemedies – two near-feral boys who are absolutely impossible to tame. They get a scamper every day for an hour or two, and I always get attacked at least once by Archemedies who is an utter fucking mentalist.
So these girls are absolutely staying with me for good. This is their forever home. They are the cutest bonus of a suicidal breakdown I’ve ever had.
Severe mental breakdown averted by the 6-mile drive, self-harm avoided by taking a long hard look at my credit card, sweet soft adorable babies I would 100% die for acquired.
By the way, I do not endorse getting a pet during a manic depressive episode. I didn’t specifically go out to get these girls, and I do have the capacity to make them very happy. I wouldn’t, for example, get a rabbit because I know I wouldn’t be able to look after it properly.
Anyway look at my rats’ tiny little hands.
