James stroked the white furry bundle on his arm and a small nose poked up inquiringly. Two pink eyes showed up in time and then the animal, preferring the dark, began determinedly burying its way into the comforting darkness of James's armpit. "I like rats better than mice; they don't smell as bad," he had told me as we entered the aseptic area marking the colony I was to work in. A low acrid smell hung in the room, lingering some way into the corridor, and I couldn't quite come to terms with it. But then I'm biased: I've worked with mice before and, though I've found their smell a little on the powerful side, I found this odour different, foreign even. Now, in an attempt to study further, here I was. James, for the moment paterfamilias of the family Muridae, described how rats were far easier to manage and far less likely to object to awkward handling. He held up the animal to show me how docile it was, leaning forward, almost offering it. Perhaps it was a test, perhaps he'd just forgotten that I may not harbour the same paternal pride with which he regarded them. He was looking at me straight in the eye. So I nodded and frowned intelligently and the small crisis was defused. Once the animal was safely behind the bars I leaned in for a closer look: They were intimidating all right in their heft but they sniffed at me with an intelligent curiosity that was quite fetching, in the old-fashioned sense of the term. But no, they weren't what I'd deem pets. The next day I walked into the colony again. The rustle and light rattle of cages were disquieting, and I looked at my charges uncertainly, knowing there would be no steel between us the day after. It was Monica who had been commissioned to ensure the fresheres knew how to handle rats. After a series of instructions, she took a rat out of the cage and put it on her arm. I watched fascinated. The senior made it clear that inattention didn't behove a first year. She put the animal down, asking me to pick it up. "By the base of the tail -- or by the body", she said warningly as I played safe, going for the furthest bit of the rat available. I bowed acquiescence and put the animal on my arm. It looked up, sniffed, and then ignored me. It peeked down over my hand, decided the long drop wasn't worth it and proceeded to try and mole its way up my lab coat. It takes time to get used to having him on your arm, an age to wrap your hand about its warm body, an aeon to hold him so that he can be turned over without causing him or you discomfort. I found my hands changing temperature differentially -- as it always does under stress. This wasn't the mouse and keyboard I am so used to, it was a rat. Monica tried to make a point. Frowning ferociously in concentration, I looked up at her. She stepped back, quite certain I was just a second away from heaving an axe at her. Later, I clarified that there was no animosity intended and that I was just wrestling with the issue internally. I hope she believed me. But, for the moment, I had the fuzzy beast teetering on the edge of my arm, sniffing furiously at the air. And then he tumbled off. Monica pursed her lip and shook her head in admonishment. "Nah. You hold it; you don't stress it in any way." She made a pinching motion. "By the base of the tail?" She had this trick of ending a sentence in the interrogative. It always made me wonder whether I had to answer it. "Yeah, like that," she said. I held him back from the edge and the rat went about sniffing in the radius I had provided. I knew it was pretty bright, that it can learn to walk in hoops, find its way through mazes, open simple locks and discriminate between alcohol and saccharine a few drinks down better than most humans. It can recognise your smell and what you augur. And though it sees you as a large predator, over time it can learn that you aren't going to absent-mindedly champ on him at lunchtime. I stroked it as commanded. Slowly it settled down, eyes half-closed in pleasure. I scratched it and it lay still, waiting for more. I began to see why there's a Web site devoted to people who have rats for pets. I saw why Winston -- of 1984 fame -- needn't have been so afraid. But then these were the docile Harley-Spragues, not starved gutter rats -- if that made a difference. Slowly, even grudgingly, I began to appreciate the animal's curiosity, its intelligence. Love was a long way away, but, well, this was a beginning, wasn't it? P Rajendran, currently doing his Phd in the US, pledges to be on first-name basis with rats by December. Tell us what you think of this diary
HOME | NEWS | CRICKET | MONEY | SPORTS | MOVIES | CHAT | BROADBAND | TRAVEL ASTROLOGY | NEWSLINKS | BOOK SHOP | MUSIC SHOP | GIFT SHOP | HOTEL BOOKINGS AIR/RAIL | WEDDING | ROMANCE | WEATHER | WOMEN | E-CARDS | EDUCATION HOMEPAGES | FREE MESSENGER | FREE EMAIL | CONTESTS | FEEDBACK