A Rat's Tale
by Mike Litrel, M.D.

Where is Peaches? Peaches is still downstairs. Is there anyone with her? No. Why is Peaches downstairs by herself? We couldn't find Peaches. What do you mean you couldn't find Peaches? No response. Three sets of shoulders shrugging.

During the next hour, as I led the reconnaissance to recover Peaches, I'd like to say that my leadership style was one of aplomb and dignity, like unto that of a Colin Powell of Cherokee County. But it wasn't. Picture something more like Homer Simpson on a bad day.

The "enclosed rat play area" had been left wide open. There were multiple escape opportunities. Every time I discovered a new one, I shrieked in anger. Peaches could be under the television! Peaches could be inside the closet! Peaches could be behind the walls!

I'd experienced this situation before. Thirty years ago I had accidentally let my brother's hamster escape. He had crawled under the heater and could not be coaxed out. Three days later I found him dead on the floor.

Once was enough. I didn't want two dead rodents on my conscience.

Finally we heard Peaches chewing on something in the closet. It took fifteen minutes to empty enough toys and blankets to unearth her, trembling in a corner. When I tried to pick her up, she took a chomp at me. What had gotten into her?

I was met with blank stares before a reluctant confession. Maybe we scared her when we were having our pillow fight. In a flash, everything became clear. Unsupervised boys terrorizing small near sighted mammals. What a fiasco.

My quiet evening ruined, as I went for Peaches I searched my mind for ways to appropriately punish my children to get revenge - I mean, to teach them consequences and responsibility. Wary of Peaches' teeth, I snagged her by the tail. She thrashed around frantically, spinning her body in circles as I took her to her cage.

A lizard's tail, I know, will sometimes break off if something catches it. But I wasn't aware that this goes for rats, too - until the moment Peaches hit the ground running and I found myself still holding the tip of her tail.

Fifteen minutes later Peaches was finally back in the tank, whimpering and nursing her wounds. Joseph was still crying, sobs racking his body.

"I have one question, Daddy," Joseph said as he watched his rat, fighting to control his emotions.

I knew what the question would be. Would Peaches die? Guilt overwhelmed me as I realized I was part of the pain of my son's experience. Yet these are the lessons you gain from having a pet. You bear responsibility for another life, for a creature that needs your help to survive. You suffer grief when you fall short. It is like having children. A pet is a living thing - part of God's creation, like a child. You care for it... and sometimes you experience the unbearable pain of letting it go.

I watched helpless as my son struggled to put his question into words. The moment seemed to last forever. I wondered how the mind of a seven year old boy would frame such an existential question. I waited patiently. Joseph finally stopped shaking and spoke, his voice high and quavering.

"Can I take Peaches' tail to Show'n'tell?"

His wording was different from what I had expected.

I paused a moment to assimilate the question and then acquiesced. I helped him put the tip of the tail in a bag, and we took a photo of the wounded rat. I even gave him some suggestions about the presentation.

The next day I asked Joseph how show-n-tell went. He looked down at his feet. Didn't your friends like it? Well, the boys loved it. But the girls and Mrs. Mihal - they were grossed out.

Then Joseph looked up at me and smiled mischievously. "Really grossed out, Dad."

Dr. Litrel is a surgeon in private practice with Cherokee Women's Health Specialists in Canton and Towne Lake, and is a Clinical Professor at Emory Medical School. His new book on faith and health is called "The Eyes Don't See What the Mind Don't Know." It is available at www.doctor-mike.net. Dr. Litrel lives in Woodstock with his wife Ann and their two sons, Tyler and Joseph. You can e-mail him at mikelitrel@comcast.net.

This past Christmas, both my boys begged me for a dog. Acquainted with my boys' maturity level, I knew what a dog would get us: work, strife, messes and nagging. But after a visit to the pet store, inspiration struck: I would buy the boys each a pet rat.

My wife Ann was skeptical. Patiently I explained my rationale. Rats would be great "practice" pets, the perfect warm-up for the inevitable family dog in a couple years. Contrary to popular belief, I expounded, rats are cute, intelligent, social and clean. They don't require house breaking, can learn to answer to their name, and can live contentedly in a small tank or cage. And the best part: unlike a dog or a cat, they live for only about two years.

The more I thought about it, the more I liked it: the entire pet experience - excitement, responsibility, companionship and grief, all rolled into a short 700 days.

A week before Christmas, I told Tyler and Joseph that I had spent only eight dollars on their presents, but they would absolutely love them. Intrigued, they spent the next seven days speculating and begging unsuccessfully for hints. On Christmas morning, after Santa's loot had been unveiled, I ran to get the rats, secreted in a hidden tank. Thrusting them with difficulty into a gift bag, I sat the boys together and deposited the package in their laps. Gingerly they peered inside.

A large black and white rat crawled out of the bag and onto Tyler's shoulder. A look of mingled surprise and terror flashed on his face before he lit up. "Aw, Dad, you got me a rat," Tyler said, smiling ear to ear. "You are so cool."

That alone was worth the eight dollars.

However, I soon discovered I would pay a bigger price. The life lessons began in short order.

Every day, as our rat manual instructed, the kids took the rats out of their tank and played with them for an hour. Joseph's rat, "Peaches," was easy to handle, but "Crookshanks" was soon re-christened "Chompers" after an incident in which he mistook Tyler's chocolate-smeared finger for a candy bar and took an exploratory bite.

Once the crying and screaming subsided, we belatedly consulted the manual and learned that washing one's hands is imperative before handling these well-meaning but sharp-toothed creatures. Rats have a remarkable sense of smell - but, as it turns out, they are a little near sighted.

Soon the play hour led to other problems. Rats like to hide - under the sofa, inside the stereo speaker - the more obscure the hiding place, the better. So we established a system: keep the rats in an enclosed and easily cleaned area in the basement.

One day a few weeks later, ground rules in place, the boys and their friends were playing with the rats in the basement. As I sat by the fire with a good book and glass of wine, I could hear muffled laughter, crying and yelling, but never at a decibel level that required I leave my recliner. All was well.

The kids came upstairs. They were red faced and sweaty, carrying sundry items and wearing big smiles. I looked over at the tank. Only one rat was inside.