Rats
The childhood gift of my dreams.
At 11 years old, all I wanted were two little varmints. From their beady eyes to their wormy, hairy tails. My heart thumped for only one species: Rats.
My fifth-grade teacher at Otter Lake Elementary had been striving to get rid of these little guys for weeks after adopting them as our class pets. I couldn’t figure out why.
We had great fun with these buggers. We placed them into tinted plastic balls so they could roam the classroom. We became architects by crafting large mansions out of tissue boxes so that our little friends could slump into a proud home. We even cleaned their cages.
Their little squeaks and Crayola crayon smelling fur melted my heart. After the teacher offered them up for keeps, I made a PowerPoint presentation that somehow won my parents over. I picked them up at my teacher’s house in June.
I had the privilege of naming one. What else should a rat be named but Tinkerbell? She may have lived up to her name if I cleaned her cage once in a while. I fell asleep to the the smell of feces most nights.
But the worst part was when they started to have seizures and became evil. Their rat bodies would bang against the cage in rapid convulsions followed by helpless squealing from the rat who was left to witness.
When I offered my assistance, they violently bit me. I vowed to never clean their cage again until they died.
After two years, both my rats bit the dust. When the last one died, I alerted my grandpa so he could dispose of it. When I witnessed him pick up its stiff body, I pushed myself against my wall and went into convulsions of disgust. Out of misunderstanding, my grandpa assured me, “It’s okay to be sad.”
–Mckenzie Van Loh for Royal Report
