Rat had chip on her shoulder

As featured Oct.1, 2011 on www.cnjonline.com

While sitting in the dentist chair, my attention was suddenly drawn to an announcer on the softly playing radio.
“Doritos inventor Arch West, dead at 97... to be buried in his beloved chips,” the voice said.
It was apparently something the family wanted to do and they planned to toss handfuls of their loved one’s innovative 40-year legacy — fried and flavored corn chips into the grave before the urn containing his ashes was covered.
Initially upon hearing the report I wasn’t quite sure whether to scoff or laugh, but then a memory started to emerge.
Godzilla was a tough little bugger.
A designer breed of rat referred to as cinnamon, her dark coat had a glistening, reddish-brown hue.
At just over 3 years old, she had outlived her two sisters Pepe and Daria, both “blue” rats, with a soft, velvety gray-blue color.
Pepe went first, she was my favorite. One day she was just laying there. No explanation, no signs or symptoms, just gone.
I have gotten pretty tough from years of loving and loosing animals but I mourned for Pepe. She would come to the door of the cage when she saw me, waiting to be held. She’d sit on my shoulder contentedly and never bit or scrambled.
Daria was a little less personable, a little more cagey, a typical middle child. She went next, the same way. Quietly and with no warning.
Godzilla, the bully hung on. At first I was angry with her, not understanding how I got stuck with the nastiest one while the others, the nicer ones, had to die.
But as time passed, I kind of felt sorry for her — Living alone, no one to steal food from or push out of the cozy spots.
I made sure she had clean bedding and checked on her more often, dumping banana chips, assorted nuts and other goodies in her cage frequently.
She got a little fat and less active with no one to pick on, spending copious amounts of time in the corner under mounds of shredded newspaper.
I figured it was her battle with karma — all her good deeds coming back at her 10-fold with huge doses of loneliness and silence.
So I kept tossing in the goodies, feeding the beast.
Simultaneously, there was a smell in the garage where she lived.
As the days passed the smell increased. A mouse must have crawled in a crevice and died, I reasoned.
The unpleasant odor became more poignant.
Suddenly it dawned on me. When was the last time Godzilla moved?
“Oh God no,” I thought.
Sure enough, there was her lifeless body, covered in a mound of untouched banana chips, pretzels and peanut butter crackers.
I’m still not sure how many days I poured food on top of her dead body.
I wrestled with guilt, feeling like a callous heel, but no matter how I looked at it, I knew there was nothing I could have done. After all, it wasn’t like she was in the habit of coming out to thank me for the food, or, for that matter, engaging in any other level of activity that would have clued me in that something was wrong.
Looking back, I’ve come to terms with it and I tell myself it was a fitting ending for her, launching into eternity from her cozy spot, covered in her favorite foods. Who could ask for more?
But now that I think about it, I bet she would have returned from the afterlife for some Doritos... If only I’d thought of that.
So long and thanks for all the chips Mr. West, may you find a good queso on the other side!

Schedules help avert cat-astrophe

, As featured Sept. 23, 2011, on cnjonline.com

Waking to teeth on my nose was not a pleasant feeling.

In all honesty, it was downright disturbing.

To add insult to injury, the little black furry face – I could only see in segments because of the macro view I had between my eye and the end of my nose – shifted and found my finger on top of the blankets then bit again.

It wasn't enough to break the skin, but the serious urgency of the message was undeniable.

Shoving the cat away with some choice words, I made it to my feet and in my sleepy haze began the bewildered route to the coffee pot in search of a caffeine infusion that might bring answers.

The route became treacherous, like running a gauntlet as the determined cat zigged and zagged in front of me.

“What is it?” I mumbled. “Oh no, Boy! Did Timmy fall down the well again?” I mumbled sarcastically as I rebelliously stayed the course and managed to get to the coffee pot without breaking my neck.

Only after I downed a cup, did I concede and pour the dry, fishy morsels into the bowl, glaring at the feline who watched with satisfaction.

It was the dawn of a new day at my house and led to me embracing something I had never had much time for previously.

Schedules...

I'll admit, I'm not a fan.

It's not that I don't like the concept, it's just they feel somewhat confining. After all, they dictate the allocation of time and time is that precious little commodity we posses that's second only to air.

However with great reluctance, I understand the value of a schedule.

I can thank my cats for that – not that I did, mind you.

I had always secretly believed there was a fine line between love and dinner when it came to my house pets, and never doubted for a second that those adoring eyes that greeted me from the recliner sometimes envisioned a snack as opposed to a pal.

On some small level it was confirmed for me that morning, though I'll admit he did display remarkable restraint.

Nonetheless, I didn't want to revisit it. It just simply wouldn't do for him to think he could munch on a finger in the absence of a full bowl of kibble.

And the schedule was born.

Every night before bed the bowl was filled, and by morning, rather than being greeted by frenzied, panicked and homicidal cats, the most acknowledgment I received was a satisfied half-purr from a drowsy window sitter.

I recently had a conversation with my mother about animals and schedules as she pondered why they respond so well to them – it's the great attitude adjuster as she had discovered with her own cat.

Of course I have a theory.

We have domesticated these critters and in so doing, have rendered them completely powerless over their environment.

The one thing that gives them a sense of control is the schedule... knowing what to expect.

Without those kernels of unchanging predictability, they live in uncertainty that they cannot correct.

In the wild if a circumstance is unfavorable – for instance an animal is hungry and there is no food source nearby – they can redirect circumstance by moving somewhere else and they know that with an investment and greater effort, they can find reward. The ability to self-direct quells fear.

However, in our homes they have no such option – unless of course you've left food on the counter, but that's a separate issue.

In the absence of opportunity to resolve issues such as hunger by themselves and with no routine to tell them when they will next eat, they become, for lack of a better word, animals. And not only are they animals, but animals full of panic and desperation.

It appears that as confining as a schedule may be, it isn't nearly as confining as a lack of control over one's destiny, fulfillment and reward... For animals, that is.