When the boys have more buck grease on them than the french fryer vat at McDonald's or they've tipped over a perfectly good bowl of blueberry baby food and promptly walked through it and sat in it, I decide it's a good time for a full bath. I have an elaborate setup that I'm sure will impress everyone.
I plug in a heating pad on high (tape cord down to the counter so it doesn't become a rat-tripping or chewing hazard) and throw some bath towels in the dryer to warm them up. At least two towels per rat. Gather any supplies I could possibly need before snatching up the first rat and making the "dead man walking" tour to the kitchen (handful of yogies being paramount) and make sure the counter is completely cleaned off so my dirty boys can't wreak havoc and knock things all over the place when they try to get away. Put one warm towel on heating pad (which has now been turned to low) to keep it warm. Say a prayer as I go to the rat room and grab the most skiddish rat first...get the "bad bath" out of the way so that each rat gets easier to bathe. Go over mental checklist as I walk down the long dark hallway to the rat room.
Gentle soap? Check. One side of sink partially filled with sudsy warm water? Check. Other side filled with clear warm water? Check. Rinse cup ready and waiting? Check. Wearing long sleeved shirt buttoned up to my chin with a t-shirt underneath? Check. Wearing medical exam gloves to help grip wet rat and protect hands? Check. Couple of soft washcloths? Check. Floor lined with towels so I don't break my neck on tile floor? Check. Yogies in a loose pile for immediate dispensing? Check. Dogs and cats shut in another room? Check. Hubby put on notice to stay on the couch (he's afraid of rats) and not walk around? Check. Lots of toasty towels within reach? Check.
My first victim...errr bathing beauty... will be Leroy, the foofy poofy rat who wants to kill any and every other animal who comes into his line of sight or smell. The one who detests being picked up, detests being an understatement. The one who hyperventilates and hiccups when you hold him and whose eyes almost pop out of his head. The one the vet fears will have a heart attack during examination because he's never seen a rat so fearful. The one who could easily take twenty minutes to chase around the cage before I get my hands on him. The one who occasionally can be lured into a box to be transported elsewhere, but never when it's for something important. He is my first because he will undoubtedly be the rat who screams bloody murder, who draws blood, who will contort and flail so badly I'm sure he's going to break himself in half trying to get away. Get him done first because he's the hardest.
The sink water is barely even tepid anymore by the time Leroy is brought into the Kitchen of Death with Super Bright Lights. I'm sweating just from wrangling him out of the cage. I take a long deep breath and recite the Lord's Prayer. I hold Leroy over the soapy water and lower him every so slowly, like an oversized potato being fed into an old worn-out electric juicer. He hangs on to my hands for dear life, like he's resigned his fate to being dropped into a crab pot and served with drawn butter. His tail is submerged and I expect the failing to begin. Then his hindquarters hit water, then belly, then just under his armpits. His feet touch the bottom of the sink and he stands up straight. I squeeze a little tighter expecting the fireworks to start.
Leroy and I stare at each other for a few seconds as if we're both watching our lives pass before our eyes.
I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. The sound is deafening. My eyes are the size of saucers, on the lookout for the impending explosion of strength and fight from a terrified one-pound rat that suddenly gains the strength of an 80lb pit bull.
Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.
Nothing. (I did bring out the correct rat, right?)
He just stands there. Just freaking stands there on his back legs. With one hand I shakily dribble a little more soap to a wet washcloth. I begin to soap Leroy up around the shoulders and arms. No reaction from him yet. Oh. This. Is. Bad. He must be building up for a massive meltdown. It dawns on me that I have not yet created a Last Will and Testament. Tick tock.
Raise him a little to work down his belly and sides to work on the buck grease that has turned my agouti hooded into a flaming redhead. Tick tock.
Rub his flanks and pull the washcloth down his tail a couple times. Tick tock.
Dunk him a few times like a cookie in milk. Tick tock.
Hold him out of the soapy water. Scoop clean water from the other side of the sink and pour it over him half a dozen times. Tick tock.
Dunk him in the clear water another half dozen times. Tick tock.
Put him on the heated towel and drape another on top of him. The only reaction I get is a barely audible soft squeak. Such a pitiful tiny noise that makes my eyes water. Lift him and a towel to me and rub him down. Borrow an edge of his towel to wipe the sweat dripping down my chin. Sit him back on the counter and have to let go as I've put the yogies on the far end of the counter. He just stands there and begins to nonchalantly bathe.
Blink. Blink. Blink blink. I cannot believe what just happened...or what didn't happen. My head hurts from the tension. My knees wobble from the adrenaline. And here is Leroy just sitting on the kitchen counter, a part of the house he's never been in, slowly bathing himself. I can just imagine he's humming show tunes to himself. I lean against the opposite counter and try to comprehend Leroy, my rat with issues. Huh. Blink. Blink blink. I offer him a single chocolate chip and he nibbles at it daintily. I pop a large handful in my own mouth.
I'm the one who needed the yogies. Not him.
Since Leroy was an absolute joy to bathe (or would have been had I not wore myself slam out with anxiety), I just KNEW his sweet-as-sugar brother Sylvester would be a complete angel!
I refilled both sides of the sink and replaced the towels. Made sure I had the yogies on the proper side of the counter this time, closest to the sink, for easy access. I removed the gloves and drenched long sleeved shirt, as surely they were no longer needed. Sylvester happily jumps from the cage to my shoulder and we go trotting into the kitchen. I whistle show tunes as I imagine the fun we'll have as he lazily swims around the sink.
Sylvester is a little nervous because he's never been in the kitchen before. No biggie, I thought. I remove him from my shoulder and start to lower him gently into the sink. His tail gets wet and he squeaks a little. "It's ok, sweet guy, Mommy is helping you not itch so much from the excessive buck grease. Lots of yogies await. It'll just be a minute." He seems to calm down a bit.
Farther into the water he goes. His bum gets wet and he grabs onto me and launches himself to my chest. As I remove him from my person, I feel a rat poop tumble down my hands. Ok, it's his first bath, I expect a little poop.
I put him back in the soapy water and he squeals. Flings himself toward the great unknown that is the paper towel stand. I grab at him and he slithers out of my hands. He lets out a long squeak as I gain purchase.
Hubby hears the commotion and comes running into the kitchen. Didn't I tell him to stay on the couch? To not walk around because he doesn't know proper etiquette on how not to step on a loose rat? He won't touch a rat, although he swears he's not afraid of them (but why does he run out of the room when I bring one of the boys out to the living room??) so he's no help to me...so stay out of my way! Ahem. I'm calm. It's all good.
I realize I gotta work fast before everything in my kitchen gets soaked. Dunk Sylvester as far into the soapy water as I can. Forget the washcloth, he won't stand still long enough for me to put soap on it. Pour a few drops on his back as I lift him back out. Syl screams.
Hubby stands right next to me watching. He has an annoying smirk on his face as he watches me wrestle this rat that is convinced I'm trying to drown him.
I have to change my grip so I can use one hand to rub the soap in. Sylvester seizes the opportunity and again attaches himself to my chest. Hubby giggles. Hubby is standing less than a foot away from me.
"You think this is funny, do you?" I say. He can't believe I'm having a hard time with a petite rat. He's just a rat. It's just a bath. I start to lay into my husband, Derek, taking out my frustration on him, hollering that it'd be nice if he learned to love my boys so he could help with this kind of thing...yada yada yada. Meanwhile, Sylvester is not letting go of my t-shirt. Bap. Thud. Blop.
I cut off midsentence when the realization hits me. My bare feet are being pelted by an onslaught of rat poop.
I look at my feet and the floor and Derek laughs louder. Sylvester is trying his darndest to scramble to my shoulder. And he's winning. Derek's loud voice catches Sylvester's attention. (Hmmm, I've seen you a few times before outside my cage. You look better than Mommy right now.)
Syl seems to hesitate and looks toward Derek. I read Syl's mind and realize he's about to jump for Derek's shoulder or chest. I see visions of dead rat and dead husband as they both scare each other to death. For a whole nanosecond I contemplate letting Syl jump onto Derek to teach him a lesson. What kind of lesson I have no idea.
Sylvester is now staring intently at Derek, apparently judging the distance. Tick tock.
I giggle and tell him he'd better step back a bit because he's about to be on the receiving end of a very frightened rat with immeasurably sharp claws. He stares at Sylvester, a very tiny boy rat...and gulps. He slides a few feet away from us. He asks how far can they jump. I say usually 3-4 feet, but maybe more. My Latino Lover turns a pukey shade of grey and jaunts back to the living room. *snickers*
I step back toward the sink. Squish. Ok, I did NOT just step in rat poop.
Back into the sink Syl goes and he again launches himself for the paper towel stand. He lands halfway into a plant in the kitchen window. Knocks over the paper towel stand. And the fruit stand. My previously white t-shirt starts to turn pink from the scratches on my chest.
Grab. Dunk. Scream. Grab. Dunk. Scream.
Forget the rinse cup. Plunge Sylvester a dozen times in the clean water and hope it's enough cuz this rat's got to go.
Plop Sylvester onto the warm and toasty towel. Try to cover him with another towel. He gets loose again and jumps onto the storage canisters. Canisters go sliding as he's running and I'm grabbing.
Dude, stop. It's over. Let. Me. Dry. You. Off!
He squeals something vulgar (that ends in "off"), I just know it.
I get him sorta wrapped in a towel which I realize is a mistake because he can just squirm his way right out. I'd have to sit on him to keep him in there.
We're both breathing heavily. I now hold this cold wet rat against my cold wet t-shirt and walk away from the Big Bad Sink.
Dang nabbit, the yogies are now on the wrong counter again because I'm over here and they're by the sink!
I set him on the far end of the counter while I retrieve the yogies. Surely he'll expect a couple hundred after this ordeal.
I remove him from the utensil crock, as he thinks a slotted spoon will save him, and offer him a yogie.
Again he sputters something vulgar (that ends in "off").
My little rat, famous for his love and cute photos of noshing on his yogies, refuses a single one.
I, on the other hand, eat TWO handfuls.
As I carry Sylvester back home, I look at my white kitchen tile and the sight is pretty bad. I not only stepped in rat poop, I squished it. And smeared it all over said white kitchen tile.
Did I mention the hallway from the kitchen to the rat room is white tile, too?
I put a very mad Sylvester back in the cage. Two rats down, one to go. Scrub the kitchen and hall floor. I take a break while the floor dries. I have a Coke. I change into a clean dry t-shirt. Throw the wet dirty towels into the garage.
Thank God the last rat is my heart rat, SugarBaby. He loves me to pieces. He would rather be with me than a hundred girl rats. He craves me. I was wrong about Leroy. I was wrong about Sylvester. But this is my SugarBaby, who loves everyone and every thing. He is so happy-go-lucky I may have trouble keeping him OUT of the sink to dry him off.
He's such a good boy and a good-natured boy. I let him out of the cage and put him in the floor. He waddles down the hallway and heads straight into the kitchen. Oh boy!! Time to explore! He checks out the dog food bowls and popcorns around. He is such a happy rat. Always happy.
I'm fiddling around with the towels and refill the sink while Sugs busy puttering around, seeing what he can see. I make the water deeper this time. I'm pretty sure he'll be one of those rats who like to swim.
Derek knows to stay on the couch because SugarBaby will follow footsteps. And he will sit on your foot (after peeing on it) and hold onto your ankle while waiting for you to raise your leg so he can walk up your body. It's a game he and I have because my Buddha belly makes it hard for me to reach into the floor while sitting in a chair. I suggest Derek put his feet up if he doesn't want to participate in this game. He agrees that he would be more comfortable stretching out on the couch to watch TV, as Sug popcorns his way around the living room and spies hubby's feet. You know, the husband who swears on a stack of magazines that he's not afraid of rats.
This rat could not be a sweeter baby. He even jumps down to go poop in a corner when we're playing on the bed. I did not teach him that, it's just something he's always done. My little gentleman rat. This bath is going to be a piece of cake. Such a happy memory this is going to make.
I call SugarBaby's name and he comes galloping back to me in the kitchen. He ambles across my foot a couple times and dribbles pee to tell me he loves me. "I pee on you, too", I say in baby talk.
Scoop him up. I kiss him. He licks me. Now this is the bath time experience I was waiting for!!!!
I tenderly put him into the sudsy water and let go. Surely he's not going to go anywhere. He stands still for a moment. I'm tickled pink. He's standing by himself in the sink. Then those gorgeous pink eyes turn to me and that cute widdle head with ears the size of satellite dishes start swaying. Oh, geez.
Out he jumps. He's going to the edge of the counter. I block his jump. He's a daredevil and I'd really rather he not jump from the sink to the ceramic tiled floor, ya know? Little too high for my tastes.
He instantly spins around and bounces off of me, to try another route of escape. What am I, a springboard? The momentum is not his friend.
He lands headfirst into a sink full of sudsy water.
He shoots back out of the sink ready to fly into who-knows-where to get away from the Big Scary Wet Thing.
I freak. He wasn't supposed to get his head wet. Now it's not just really really wet, his huge dumbo ears and face are full of soap bubbles. I clamor to grab the rinse cup and have no choice but to pour clean water right down his head. He's not exactly a willing participant and I pray I'm not drowning him.
I press him to me, give him kisses, and he licks my nose. Let's try this again. That first "thing" was a fluke, right? He really needs a good scrubbing; he's a very dirty boy. And he'd become very itchy.
I put him back into the sink. He squirms and wriggles. He twists and turns. "SugarBaby, I can't wash you if you don't stay still a minute." He says he is having none of this malarkey. I beg, I plead. I should have remembered he is a very wriggly worm whenever I try and hold him. He's such a busybody, he can't be still. By golly he wants to run play and hop around, not stay still! How could I possibly forget that about my happy popcorny guy?
My happy rat is now a ticked off rat. But my ticked off rat is going to get a bath, by golly. I think maybe the depth of the water is what's scaring him. I hold him to me again as I pull the plug in the sink to let some of the water out.
As I'm grappling with him, almost all the water is gone. Too much water is gone. Crapola! I have to turn the faucet on and this is becoming more than I can take so let's hurry and get this over with. I turn the faucet on high. I pour in extra soap because a washcloth and a good rubbing probably are not going to work at all. Sink looks like a bubble bath. Holy moly. Stupid stupid stupid.
SugarBaby is panicked by the loud sound of running water and he pushes off of me to get away. Oh for heaven's sakes.
Guess where he lands? Yep, you guessed it.
Headfirst into extra soapy water.
I catch him before he shoots like a circus clown out of a cannon toward the floor.
Sigh. I give up. I've had it. Forget it. Gotta get drastic here.
I push the faucet to the clean side and while manhandling my heart rat for dear life (mine, not his), hold this writhing creature under the scary running water to rinse him off as quickly as possible.
I shut the water off and set him on a warm towel. This time I'm the one saying vulgar things (that end in "off") because he was supposed to be the best boy of the bunch. Instead he was the worst for scaring me so bad. Going headfirst and all the way under the water. That is such a non-heart rat thing to do.
I'm sputtering about the indignity of it all. He and I are both soaked to the bone. I'm just a-fussin at SugarBaby while vigorously rubbing him with a towel. I'm griping at him a mile a minute and if I had a free finger it'd be just wagging away at him.
That towel gets too wet so I need another. I lift the towel off him and that big boogerhead. He's boggling at me!!!!!
I'm now laughing at him, and mad that I'm laughing cuz I'm not done fussing, the little (censored). I walk to the other end of the counter for another dry towel.
When I step back, he'd quietly moseyed over to the handful of yogies and was gleefully helping himself.
