Mr. Barnes, Esquire
In the history of the world, there have only been a few beloved rats.
Templeton in Charlotte’s Web was one.
So was Remy, the hero of the animated movie Ratatouille.
And Rat in the Pearls Before Swine comic strip has his fans.
Let me introduce you to another–Mr. Barnes, Esquire.
But first–a quick primer for non-rat people.
· Most pet rats are called fancy rats, and, no, that’s not an oxymoron. They come in assorted colors and patterns. Quite fancy, actually. From whence the name.
· Rats are clean. They groom themselves frequently, like a cat. In fact, if cleanliness is next to godliness, rats are closer to God than most adolescent boys.
· Rats are smart. Bright-eyed. Go into any supermarket in the country and you’ll see duller human eyes staring back at you just on your way back to the dairy case.
· Rats–and this is one of the greatest injustices in the world–are short-lived. I suppose, like so many things rare and exotic, they’re highly perishable. They usually only last two to three years.
Barnes started out rather quiet and unassuming, but he had a surprise in store for us. One evening, we left the top of his cage–a spacious, well-appointed lodging–unlatched.
The next morning, we found him snooping around on our desk and returned him to his home. That’s when we noticed the golf ball. Barnes had found a golf ball and carried it to his cage, scaling 2-feet of bars to deposit it in his food dish.
“So what?” you say. “It was just a golf ball. What’s the big deal?” Well, let me put this in perspective–it would be like you rising in the middle of the night, sneaking out to your garden and then climbing back up the drain pipe to your second story bedroom with a watermelon in your mouth. Try that and then come talk to me.
From then on, he had a fascination with golf balls. He was obviously passionate about the sport. I thought about calling the Ryder Cup Committee, but I knew it would be futile. Like Rodney Dangerfield, rats get no respect.
As our relationship with Barnes developed, he’d demonstrate his commitment to us by grooming our hands whenever we petted him or gave him a treat. He wasn’t implying that we had parasites–it was just a better-safe-than-sorry thing.
Even though he started out as Barnes, he soon became known as Mister Barnes. As you know, the title “Mister” is one of respect. After a while, even that didn’t seem enough, and we added “Esquire.”
I can tell you–and you can dismiss this as soon as you read it–Mr. Barnes was an extraordinary creature. He never let the fact that he was a different species get in the way of our relationship. He was quite eccentric–he had a fondness for turkey and sweet potato baby food and for camping overnight in an empty Kleenex box. He could skin a sweet pea in nothing flat. He was amazingly stoic, enduring injuries and pains with a saintly resignation. Even though he had bumble foot, a vile affliction common to rats, he never so much as squeaked a complaint.
When two years came and went, we started becoming aware of his mortality. At two and a third, we’d check on him first thing every morning. We knew he was wearing down.
One day, at age two and a half, Mr. Barnes, old and weary, suddenly became animated, standing on his back legs to request–you might even say demand–attention. He wanted to be petted. We didn’t realize it at the time, but he knew his time was drawing to an end, and he didn’t want to be alone. Who does?
Mister Barnes, Esquire–we think of him often. We hope someday we’ll be worthy of him.