When I was sixteen years old, I worked as a lab technician for the biology department. It was, by far, the best part of my day. For one hour I was left alone to clean the cages and feed a host of snakes, rats, igauanas, frogs, and various other creeping, crawling, slithering creatures.
I would begin my day by taking Caliban, the three foot Ball Python, from his cage. Caliban had a penchant for wrapping about the belt loops of my blue jeans and snuggling his nose under my shirt. There he would stay for the entire duration of my work hour. Of course, I indulged him. From Caliban came my love of pythons. However, this story isn't about Caliban, no matter how snuggly and adorable he was, it is, instead, about a rat.
Due to the various snakes and packman frogs in the facility, it was more cost effective to breed the rats instead of buying them to feed to the predatory critters. Of course, six cages filled with twenty rats each requires daily cleaning, scrubbing, and a powerful blast from the high pressure water hose. Aimed improperly, of course, the water would cause the mushy and odiferous
remains of meals to jettison violently from the corner of the cages and splatter on your jeans and shoes with the appeal of a soggy microwaveable waffle.
One day while cleaning out the cage (obviously putting Caliban aside while I handled his meals because I certainly did not want to give him any ideas that I was operating an All You Can Eat buffet), I dropped a pinkie rat. He landed, on his head, on the concrete floor.
I was horrified and rushed to cradle him in my hands. For all points and purposes, he
seemed fine except for the small spot of blood on his noggin. With utmost care, I returned him to his cage with the other rats and finished my chores.
Because I saw these rats every day, I could recognize each individual one. I knew their traits, their personalities, what they liked to eat and who they fought. After my chores, I would sit down and read aloud whatever book I had at the time for them. The effect was noticeable - they became more quiet as I read and eventually fell into a giant fuzzy ball of appendages and snores. This may or may not have been an attempt to escape the not so melodious dronings of my voice.
As the rat grew older, I noticed a distinctive cant to his head. He was perpetually waddling around with his head tilted sideways. The biology professor explained it was a sign of mental retardation either caused from bad breeding or a blunt blow to the head.
In addition to his special ed status, this young rodent suffered (likely, once again, caused by the blunt blow to the head) seizures.
I felt rather horrifically (and rightfully so) guilty about this particular lifestyle he had unwillingly adopted so shortly after being brought into the world.
The professor and I agreed: It just seemed
wrong somehow to throw a mentally deficient rat into a cage filled with snakes.
It was decided then that I would take him home. The day it was decided I had happened to be reading Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. I had reached the part for the introduction of Clerval - a secondary character that was meant to represent all the good, light, and kindness in humanity. Thus, in a fit of manic glee, I gave my epiphany impaired rodent this monicker.
Thus began the domestic life of Clerval. It was filled for three years with much petting, cuddling, snuggling and Cheetos. There are only two other instances that stand out in Clerval's life. His first and only true love and his death.
At the ripe old rat age of two, I got Clerval a rat companion. She was a small little black and white female who happily went into the cage one afternoon and just as happily escaped and was found on the shelf in the morning.
Each morning she became increasingly more frantic when I placed her back in the cage. I attributed it to her 'free spirit' (i.e. "Hi, I'm a rat. I don't want to be in this damn cage. I want to be in your cupboard and eating your food").
One morning she was nowhere to be found and no amount of searching caused her to turn up. Two days later, I took Clerval out of his cage and began to clean it. After removing the straw, I found her. Or, should I say, her skull.
Clerval, my dear and loving rat, was a cannibal. Every night he must have attempted to devour her, but she escaped. Every morning, I returned her to the hulking beast that considered her meals on wheels (or tiny paws, for that matter). I can only imagine what went through her brain every time she saw me.
The following year, Clerval developed cancer and died. Unfortunately, he died the night of a severe snow and ice storm. I was living in an apartment complex at the time and had no means of driving him to a proper burial ground. I certainly wasn't spending the rest of the week with his corpse in a shoebox and sitting on the balcony until the snow melted.
So, bundling up, I took the box and hiked onto the trail behind the house that was surrounded by woods. I tried valiantly to bury him, but the ground was solid and refused to allow Clerval even the decency of an earthy funeral.
After much searching, I found a fallen tree. A small hole had worn away inside of the wood. It was the only opening left in which to place Clerval. With a word of heartfelt sadness at his passing, I removed him from his box.
He didn't fit. Rigor mortis had set in and Clerval was as stubborn in death to go where I wanted him as he was in life. There was only one thing to do since I refused to allow his little body to lay in the open for all the world to see.
With a grimace and a prayer against desecrating the dead, I bent Clerval in half and stuffed him in the log. After several tearful moments and more incoherent words, I stood up and turned around...
...to see...
Two lovebird hikers that had been enjoying the brisk morning of pristine white looking at me in horror, mouths agape.
What to do? What to do?
I smiled timidly and hightailed it back to my apartment as quickly as I could - shoebox forgotten and Clerval crammed into a most inappropriate mausoleum.
At birth, Clerval was dropped unceremoniously on his head and suffered severe brain damage and reoccuring seizures. He cannibalized his love in his middle years and was manipulated into shapes that potentially resembled a macabre carbon origami at the end of a blistering storm in death.
And you think
you have problems.
