Frogtown Rat Rider, Part Two

Dear Readers;

I had to do a little redo on this post. Some viewers were unsure as to what exactly they were looking at, that is, what was the original street mural, and what was my part. So I've added some photos to clarify. Also, my first post on the Rat Rider might help explain as well. 

Here was original Mayan mural found in Frogtown:

(Notice a ladder on the ground, 

perhaps they were trying to do a little touch up?)

And here was my first addition:

Frogtown Rat Rider

(click to make bigger)

And here is where I left off, adding the Mayan warrior boxer (or, at least, half of him):

Warrior Boxer and Frogtown Rat Rider,

Mayan mural on Blake Street

My friend Molly and I put this up last night right before it began to drizzle, then rain, and then pour, and I should have listened to her about the weather forecast, but I had a need to complete this incomplete mural, and so we went: step ladder in hand, two brushes, a bucket full of paste and our cameras that we couldn't use because our hands were too sticky.

Today Molly called after the rain and told me the boxer was still up (we had our doubts) but her mother, who she took along to see it, asked her why I hadn't finished the mural— those people with only one arm and leg, she couldn't understand it. She must've thought me lazy, leaving it so raw.

After we'd done the deed we went back to my house and played with rats, or the one that would play, Blu. Here's Molly and Blu, who couldn't stay away from each other, esp Blu, who had a thing for Molly's fake fur hoody. I had to make sure she didn't "accidentally" take my fat rat home with her.

Just hanging

•••

endnote: Like most natives of Louisville, KY, I'm a big fan of Muhammad Ali, who was born Cassius Clay in Louisville when it was still a fiercely segregated city. The book, Muhammad Ali: in Perspective, by Thomas Hauser (Collins Publishers San Francisco, 1996) was my inspiration for the warrior boxer, with a few tears thrown in for how much I love/loved the great Ali.

 

 

Rats: the reality

Gambian giant pouch rat with trainer

(photo credit: www.animalplanet.com)

Before you start shrieking and running from the computer, say hello to the bravest rat you'll ever meet: the Gambian giant pouch rat, also called African giant pouch rat. This fellow has been trained to detect landmines—40 million of them in Africa—and has the ability to rat out TB virus in humans, through its acute sense of smell. These pouch rats are not only hard workers, but are on first name basis with Jane Goodall, who's teamed with APOPO, a humanitarian group that "researches, develops and deploys detection rat technology." The rats save lives all for a liter of bananas! Nicholas Kristof was so impressed he wrote about their work in an article about Father's Day, called "Dad will really like this" (thanks to Lu for pointing out). 

Talking about dads, my father hated rats. Once when I visited my parents' home in Florida, I was hit by the most putrid stench as soon as I walked through the door. "What's that smell?" I asked. "What smell," my father said, eyeing me suspiciously. Me: "That death smell." Him: "I don't smell anything." He left it and turned back to whatever he was doing, while I turned to tearing the house apart to find out what had died. The next day, while doing laundry, I saw two long, stiff tails sticking out from a hole behind the dryer. The dryer vent had been circulating that rankness in every corner of the house, to which my parents were oblivious because they'd lost all sense of smell. My mother remembered putting out poison, but hadn't thought about it since. "Oh, so that's what happened to them," she said, amused.

Why do people hate rats so? The answer to that question can be found in Joseph Mitchell's Up In the Old Hotel in the chilling "The Rats on the Waterfront" (written in 1944 about NYC rats, although things haven't changed that much according to recent reports).

 Joseph Mitchell

(photo credit: www.nytimes.com)

Mitchell, the great New Yorker writer, interviewed exterminators, ship's captains and fish mongers to get the real story of rats in the city. Even I, a rat lover, could barely sit still reading about the rat that climbed up a mop pole and bit off a ship boy's thumb nail. "A trap means nothing to them," said a NYC exterminator, "no matter how skillfully set. They just kick it around until it snaps; then they eat the bait. And they can detect poisoned bait a yard off. I believe some of them can read." 

To that point, I'd agree. Rats are extremely intelligent; but domesticated rats are as different in temperament from street rats as domesticated dogs are from wolves. From my experience, their intelligence and sweet disposition ranks right up there with the pouch rat (also their love for bananas!). APOPO trainers say they take clues from their rats as to where the landmines have been buried, but the thing of it is, each rat communicates differently, i.e., each has a distinct personality with a distinct way to point out where there's trouble. I'd say for a liter of bananas, Malka, our pet brown Dumbo, would do the same.
 

Malka, just another crazy, banana lovin' rat.

Earthquakes, rats and weasels

I couldn't sleep on Monday night, which might explain why I was awake when the earthquake struck at 4 a.m. It was ten seconds or so of horizontal rumbling. Nothing dramatic. Bit it shook my cage and I reached out to grab Tom's hand— he'd been in NY the last five days—and I couldn't believe how warm and alive he felt! When you sleep by yourself, the other side of the bed gets deliciously cool, but past a certain point, it just gets cold.

I wasn't sleeping because our rat Luna is sick. She's been through two operations to remove mammary tumors but this time it's something internal, and there's nothing we can do about it. I just hope she makes it until Maya comes home for spring break, that's ten days from now. I think she will; this morning she was perkier than the night before—a hopeful sign. She's a brave little rat.

Luna

As I was coming to accept the inevitable, I was watching a live cam of a hummingbird sitting on her eggs (http://phoebeallens.com). The most interesting thing, though, was the simultaneous live chat that was going on. Five-thousand people were on the site at one point, and I'd say for the most part, the chatters were complaining about the pace of the hatch. "It's taking so long, when's it going to happen?" they kept asking. Maybe they were young, maybe they hadn't been through childbirth, maybe they're/we're all too addicted to facebook and instant messaging and instant everything to have the patience to follow a hummingbird. But they'll/we'll figure it out soon enough: you can't force nature by clicking a mouse. Nature has it's own time frame, and it certainly isn't ours.

When I went to the web cam the next morning I found out the eggs had never hatched and probably weren't viable. But there it was, another thing nature was telling us, that death is part of it. That's what I keep telling myself anyway about Luna. She's had two good years with us and even though two years is short, it's the life span of a rat. During that time we've provided her with everything she's wanted: almonds, peanut butter on rice crackers, yogurt, lettuce and kale. Especially kale. She loves it cooked in olive oil and garlic. She was, and still is, a good rat. When Tom watches TV she sits beside him to keep him company; when I'm at the computer, she'll let me scratch her ears, making teeth chattering noises of delight. She greets me at the door at night when I come home from work. She starred in my video called RATZ the Movie, playing with a walnut and making the funny papers take off across the room like they had legs of their own.

a brave little rat

It's hard to sleep when you know someone's sick or dying. I wonder if the hummingbird is sleeping and what she'll do with her eggs when she finds out they're not going to hatch.

~~~

On Tuesday I read in the LA Times, under "National Briefing," about John Edwards' mistress telling all to GQ Magazine (Thank God!). My first thought was, I wonder how much they're paying her?, and my second thought was, Edwards is such a rat! But then I realized that's not fair to rats, who are extremely smart little creatures, the opposite of Edwards. He's a weasel then, but that's not fair to weasels either, who are just trying to fend for themselves among much bigger critters. So he's a pig. But pigs, according to E.B. White, are innocent, obligingly eating their slop to fatten up for their masters to slaughter them. So no, he's not a pig. So what is he then, this man who ran for President deceiving himself and worse, deceiving us, the electorate?  If you can think of a good name, I'd like to know.

RATZ the movie

 purse rat

For my birthday I thought I'd do something fun, or if not fun, at least distracting. So here, presented for the first time is "RATZ the Movie," starring Luna and Malka. If you're rat-adverse, or rat-challenged, then DO NOT VIEW THIS VIDEO. Mean rats like these are not for the squeamish. But if you've been around domesticated rats before, then these guys are pretty funny. Luna is the albino one and Malka (with the Jewish name) is the fat brown dumbo. I hope the Jewish Defense League doesn't come after me for calling my rat a Jewish fat dumbo. That's just who she is. Enjoy.

RATZ

 Malka

When my daughter left for college she left behind her pet rats Luna and Malka. If you've ever had rats you know what great pets they make. Albino rats have been bred since the early 1900s for their docile natures, thus what's followed is totally different than NYC sewer rats (although if you cleaned up those little fellows who knows how well behaved they'd be?).

Luna

 
Domesticated rats bond with you. For instance, when I sit at my computer Luna sits beside me while I scratch behind her ears; she responds by closing her eyes and making teeth chattering noises (a rat's bliss). Malka is the more active rat, but when she's feeling affectionate, she'll patiently groom Tom's nails. Both wait to hear my car at night then scurry to greet me at the door when I come home from work.


Lately, they've taken to nesting under the orange couch. I found this out the other day when I walked into the room and thought, "Now, why is that dishtowel moving across the floor?" I looked under the couch and saw a pile of old newspapers, dishtowels and rags wrapped around each other in a huge rat's nest. I had to take it apart yesterday, it was getting so big, and then this morning I found they'd dragged all the folded laundry under the couch to start again.

Breakfast/lunch/dinner

Nothing makes me happier than waking up in the morning and saying hello to my rats— nothing, that is, except for writing this blog, which has cheered me beyond belief, giving me a way to deal with my own rat's nest and the day-to-day of missing my kids.