His name was Wilbur, but I called him Stinky. He wasn’t really that stinky, but he was a rat, so I thought it was an apt name.
My mother was a bookkeeper at a Montessori school and she brought him home over the summer because there was no one to take care of him. I volunteered to take on the task and put the cage in my bedroom. I think was around 13 or 14 years old at the time.
I kept his cage clean because if I let it go for one day, he’d start to eat his poop. The first time I saw him do that I was mortified and was worried he’d die. The cage was orange and rectangular plastic with metal bars. I proudly wrote in blue marker “Wilbur” on the outside of it. But the name Stinky still stuck.
I gave him baths, let him crawl around my room, and even brought him downstairs on my shoulder to greet my family. One time I came down and put him on my brother’s girlfriend’s shoulder, and she shrieked loudly and had tears in her eyes. I didn’t think Stinky was that scary. Maybe it was his pink tail. He was white with large black and brown spots. I thought he was rather cute.
We had my brother’s best friend boarding with us while he went to university. His room was right across the hall from mine, and was always a mess, with dirty cups filled with cold, mouldy coffee, dust bunnies scattered across the floor, and clothes, papers, and books flung all about. We were always teasing him to clean it up, so one day, while he was in the bathroom, I secretly put Stinky in his room and closed the door. The boarder went back in his room to resume studying, and I waited. After a few minutes, I heard scuffling, banging and “What the ??!!” He came out of his room holding Stinky, standing in my doorway, smiling angrily.
“Why did you do that?” he asked.
“Oh just to have some fun with you and maybe scare you into cleaning your room!” I said smugly.
He smirked, gave me the rat, and returned to his room. That wasn’t the only prank I played on him.
During this time, I had been begging my parents for a kitten. We finally got one, a calico female, named Josephine. I thought the kitten and rat might not get along, so it was time to upgrade to cat only status. I promised my parents I would take full care of the kitten and keep her in my room, litter box and all.
I didn’t know what to do with Stinky. My brother then offered to take Stinky and take care of him in his room in the basement. I was thrilled and gave him the cage, but he got Stinky another black-topped, smaller, round, metal cage.
My brother placed the rat-in-cage on the freezer in the basement, which was right beside his room. I was relieved of rat duty.
Months passed. The freezer was also beside the bathroom the whole household used for showering. Every morning I greeted Stinky, noticing a foul smell, dirty shavings, and poop everywhere. I asked my brother to clean the cage out, and he said he would, but never, or rarely, did.
The stench grew fouler, and poop piles larger, and Stinky’s health started to decline. Large tumours grew on his neck. I begged my brother to clean the cage, and even offered to do it for him, but he said, no, he’d do it. I think I just broke down and cleaned the cage a few times, and I don’t think he even noticed.
I have to admit, I don’t know why I just didn’t take the rat back. He was in a cage, and the cat wouldn’t have gotten to him, and even if he did, they could have been trained to be friends. I was young and ignorant, and a little intimidated by my older brother.
Then my brother decided to end Stinky’s life because he was suffering with the tumours. He said he was going to smash him against a brick wall and bury him. I watched him do it one summer’s evening at the side of the house. I was fascinated. I felt sad. I felt guilty. My brother asked me what kind of girl watches her brother kill a rat and bury it. I didn’t know what kind of girl I was.
blaak sheep 