To my rats: get out of my shirt.

Ok, sweeties, you know I love you more than anything, you are my babies, the light of my life. That’s why I let you run around my room unsupervised, crawl around my desk, and sit in my shirt. But lately there have been problems.

You will not let me trim your nails. I need two people to accomplish this task, and you know that. You also know that all of my friends are icked-out by you and won’t help me, so I have to try it alone. You squirm, you squeak, you look at me pitifully with those big shiny eyes that seem to say, “Mom, why are you doing this to me? I thought you loved me!”

Ok, fine. I won’t trim your nails. You can have giant, curved, nasty spikes growing out of your feet just to show your buddies that you are all big and bad. But you can’t play in my clothes any more. Don’t even try. My skin is tender and easily broken. My arms and hands look like I’ve been in a fight with a large animal of feline decent. I don’t want my tender boob-skin to look the same! Either sit still for your trim, or get outta there!

Another thing. I know you dislike me being on the computer. It takes away time that I should be spending hand-feeding you peeled grapes. But it’s important for momma to be on the computer, sweeties! She does important schoolwork and (even more important) hangs out on the SDMB. When you crawl across the keyboard or chew through the mouse cord, it makes mommy upset. Please don’t?

Oh and a final word: Lucky, you’re my little angel; I love you, even though you’re a demon. Could you please stop nibbling my feet? They will always be feet, never food. Stop it, or I will fling your tiny body across the room. (Idle threat)

Oh, so that’s what it was. I just thought you had amazingly mobile booblets.


It’s like two puppies fighting under a blanket!"


I used to have a rat, Isabella, who would do that. Before I knew it the little blankety-blank had chewed out most of the seams in some of my favorite shirts.


But I still let her do it what a wee cutie she was.