The night before last, I ventured out into my new neighborhood hoping to find a pet shop that sells live feeder rats (PetSmart won’t sell live rats for food, and I’d rather not shop at a big box store, anyway). Luckily, I found a really nice shop less than two miles from my apartment that has everything I’ll ever need to take care of my home menagerie.
I plopped down $6 for a big fat juicy rat for my ball python, Ralph, and I also got some crickets for Sully, my bearded dragon. It’s been a couple of weeks since Ralph’s been fed, so I expected him to eat as soon as I got home. Unfortunately, he had apparently begun shedding that day, because his eye caps were already hazy when I got there. He wouldn’t eat, so I resigned myself to taking care of a “pet” rat until he regained his appetite.
Only one obstacle made this a pain in the ass: just a couple of weeks ago, I adopted a stray cat off the street. Her name’s Penny. I’ve been wary of Penny around the reptiles, but so far she seems more fascinated than predatory. That was not the case with the rat.
I knew that Penny could and would easily get into the feeding tank, so I planned to lock her in my room that night while I slept and again when I went to work in the morning. I didn’t plan on passing out cold while watching TV. When I woke up the next morning, the rat was gone. I searched the house for droppings and traces of blood, but found nothing. I determined that the rat was alive somewhere in the house, but I had to go to work.
Inevitably, I came home to a blood stain on my living room floor and a very satisfied-looking Penny. Being from the streets, she wasn’t picky like most housecats. There was nothing left. Not even the bones.
