It’s Just a Rat
by Charity Carlson Hirst
“Absolutely not. No more animals in this house! Especially creepy ones.”
“PLEASE, Mom?” my daughter pleaded. “Rats are sweet and smart and I’ll take really good care of it.”
A few months later, she giggled, it’s just a rat,” as our new pet Penny scuttled up my arm and across my shoulder into the long hair at the nape of my neck. Her naked, pink tail slithered behind tiny claws. Goosebumps prickled my skin.
“It’s just a rat, Mom,” she sighed a year later, too preoccupied with pre-teen distractions to play with Penny anymore. So I became the rat’s begrudging caregiver, cleaning her cage and providing fresh food and water every day. She reached out a paw to grasp my finger whenever I walked past, and I started rubbing her warm nose through the cage without fear of her strong teeth.
Penny’s cage moved into my home office, where she did parkour across the furniture while I worked, using her tail for balance. I saved a few of her favorite dinner scraps every night, and she munched them contentedly between dexterous paws like a human holding a sandwich.
“It’s just a rat, and they only live for a few years at the most. Tumors are very common,” the veterinarian reminded me when I felt a lump on her back the following year. “She’s almost three, so surgery isn’t advised. You could wait it out, or choose to euthanize today.”
Penny was not in visible pain, so we left. She slept quietly in a shoe box on the ride home, wrapped in my daughter’s old baby blanket.
I treated Penny to bits of fruit and cheese as the tumor grew exponentially in her small body. Although she no longer ventured to the second level of her cage, she came to the door every time I approached, whiskers tickling my palm as she sniffed for snacks.
Late one night, when she barely had the strength to lift her head and wiggle her nose in greeting. I carefully scooped her up and smelled urine. Vowing to call the vet when they opened in a few hours, I gave her a gentle sponge bath, then wrapped her in a small towel. I walked downstairs in the dark and reclined in the rocking armchair, Penny resting peacefully on my chest.
“She’s just a rat,” I marveled; “why am I losing sleep to hold her all night?”
I stroked her soft, brown fur as the rest of my family slept, watching the rise and fall of her breath as the sun came up in the sky.
Then Penny lurched awake, rapidly opening and closing her mouth as if gasping for air. Her tiny body convulsed as I tried in vain to stifle gulping sobs.
“Shhhhhh, it’s ok. I’m here. You can rest now.”
I cradled Penny close to my heart as her pink nose grew cold, wailing with grief.
But it was just a rat.