Quick update: Mine and : Suave's interviews will be aired on Friday, tomorrow on SAfm at 12:45 in the afternoon, and again on Monday on Radio 2000 at 1.10pm.
Chad my rat is punishing me for having a boyfriend.
The signs are all there.
His behaviour is bordering on passive hostility, and the result is me, the attention giver, giving into Chad, the attention seeker. The classic, if not predictable sociopathic pattern when 1 x attention seeker is trying to make a point. The end result is forthright blatancy in the form of angry chewing.
As Sir Isaac Newton once professed, and henceforth remained gung-ho with scientists around the world because of, Every action has a reaction.
He was right you know.
I have an extraordinary pair of black trousers. Extraordinary because they’re practically perfect in every way.
I took them off very quickly and feverishly the other night (the reason why is another story altogether), and tossed them with reckless abandon onto the carpet, perfectly adjacent to Chad’s cage.
As jealousy and boredom consumed him, he reached for a stray thread jutting idly from my innocent pants, pulled them towards his gnashing incisors, and chewed a massive hole right above the crotch area.
This only came to my attention after 40 minutes. Feverish distraction prevented me from noticing any sooner. He ate more than half the top of my trousers. He swallowed half of what he nibbled on, digested it and passed out hundreds of perfectly-shaped black cotton stools. With a smile on his face.
Semi-digested rat droppings – the fate of my pants. No death could be more undignified.
The leftover shreds were formed into a new nest.
Newton’s Third Law proved correct: He chowed my pants (action), I screamed for half an hour (reaction).
Yesterday I fumbled around for ten minutes amongst the mayhem that is his cage. (Chad isn’t particularly house proud). Why? His food bowl has disappeared.
No, but gone. Nowhere to be seen. The world’s greatest mystery since Emily Earhart.
It’s disappeared into thin air.
Or, maybe, more intentionally, he has consumed a large amount of plastic, in a bid to pry my attention away from the other man in my life. The reaction is to spend fruitless hours looking for his bloody food vestibule.
(“That’s right bitch, carry on looking…oh yes. Only when I shit out a lump of green plastic tomorrow will you know the fate of my food bowl. That’ll teach ya.”)
I think we may need counseling.