Diagnosis Rodentia

Meet the ferals

noreply@blogger.com (TheLabRat) — Fri, 22 Apr 2016 21:23:00 +0000

I've had this saved as a draft post for two years. I'm really just publishing it for posterity, as they say.

In the summer of 2013, I rented a trap from a local animal shelter to catch a mama cat and her only kitten. They were living under the foundation of a building in my apartment complex and I was worried our new landlord would seal them inside when they fixed the hole that allowed access to the space.

This is Mama Mia. Unfortunately, it was not safe to release her back into the area where I found her after her spay at the feral cat coalition. I had two cats already, and though she had a room where she could be isolated from them, the stress of their smell, being indoors, and the surgical procedure contributed to her death mere days after this picture was taken. The vet estimated she was only about ten months old when she birthed her kitten.

And this is Tigger, who is now almost three years old. Originally, I had planned to foster him for adoption but when his mother died, I couldn't help but keep him. He is a mama's boy through and through. He still spooks at sudden sounds. He loves every cat he meets but is terrified of new humans. He's so bow legged that he looks like a munchkin cat. I adore him so much I made him a Twitter account like a big dork.

little dark lost

noreply@blogger.com (TheLabRat) — Fri, 22 Jan 2016 02:34:00 +0000

Little distant glimmers
Drop off alone but in sequence
They were only tiny rays
But without them I dance in the dark

Kitten Haikus

noreply@blogger.com (TheLabRat) — Fri, 13 Feb 2009 01:44:00 +0000

This is a series of haikus I wrote when Kiyoshi the Kitten first came to live with me. Posted for posterity and my own amusement.

Short version of Yoshi’s background: I found him mewling in the bushes beneath my window when I overheard some children; “The cat is still here. Do you still have that stick?” No, I did not kill any minors that day.

Symbiotic
wiry, lithe kitten
planes and angles stretched out long
safe at last in laps

tummy rubs at dawn
golden eyes hypnotize me
in the palm of paws

enchanted
exotic orphan
miniature perfection
tiniest whiskers

you stole it again
I can deny you nothing
that's my chair not yours

late
love the little mew
i could do lap time all day
but you need cat food

don't sad mew at me
if you want your chicken necks
i have to leave now

curious
nooks, crannies for you
suddenly clutter is good
laundry mountains loom

don't worry kitten
the water will not hurt me
it's just a shower

stay away from there
the fishy* is not for you
you can't jump that high

horking
don't eat so fast goob
the food is all for you now
take your time, that's gross

first bath
I know this is lame
but you really need a bath
please get off my head

*The fishy in question passed away last week. He and Yoshi became good friends after Yoshi figured out he actually could jump that high. RIP Alpha.

Serial Short: Part Three

noreply@blogger.com (TheLabRat) — Thu, 29 Mar 2007 09:05:00 +0000

The funny thing about dreams is the way they mix and match reality. It’s like playing cut and paste with the people, places, and pathologies that make each of us who we are. Perhaps that is why they lend themselves to pop-psychology style interpretations. We think we know ourselves fairly well, but a different combination of faces, locales, and situations might lead us to actions we thought impossible. All the signposts in a dream are familiar but they lead us to destinations we didn’t know existed.

We’ve skipped over again and are passing the last of a shitty joint back and forth in a studio apartment I haven’t lived in for years, in a town that no longer resembles my memories. It’s a one room cottage twenty feet from a major railroad. Its moldy walls are thinly webbed with ancient cracks and seem to breathe due to the sharp angle of the floor. Pipes with shoddy wiring in them encircle the room and run to a 30 year old furnace that hasn’t worked in ten.
The passing freighter is a respite from conversation. Neither of us is sure of how to proceed without being more obviously phony than is desirable. So I recline on my bed and he perches on a chaise comprised of dirty laundry and books. We pass our Bammer Brown Pinner to the music of rumbling earth and rattling walls. A stick of nag champa drops a long ash as the end of the train passes.

“Want a beer?” Not waiting for an answer, I reach for the fridge. This involves climbing over and around both the clutter and my guest, a feat that looks complicated but that I accomplish with a practiced, off balance grace. I feel his eyes track me as I navigate the chaos; they slither across my skin and leave a trail of goose bumps. Distracted for a moment, I almost slip on a sock I thought I’d lost. I grab two bottles from the fridge and a slice of cold pizza for myself.

“You sure they aren’t broken? I think your hut slid a few feet.”

“You get used to it. It’s like being rocked to sleep. The speakers on my TV are shot though.”

I hand off the beer and we settle back into our respective positions. There seems to be less space than before, and I am aware of my con-man’s proximity. He radiates an easy heat that seems always just out of reach. And I am so very cold. I inch closer under the guise of searching for a lost bit of cheese.

Sensing my ploy, he retakes the lead. “How’s the pizza?”

“Shitty. Or else I’d offer.”

“A hospitable one, aren’t you?” Finally, he’s fishing again. I thought I’d lost him.

See and raise. “When it suits me.”

He pretends to consider this flip remark and its implications for a moment. “Would it suit you to offer a stranger a place to lay his head for the night?” It would seem he’s finally settled on a course of action.

I, however, have not. “I might be convinced of it.”

He recognizes my indecision but mistakes it for naive invitation. “And how could I convince you?” Unknowingly showing his own uncertainty, he leans forward the smallest amount, to remind me of his warmth. He is so precise in his carelessness. I wonder if he can dance.

Sipping my beer, I ponder the question for a moment and then forget it, letting my mind go blank. I swallow slowly, wipe my mouth, and say the very next thing that pops into my head. “Tell me a story.” My voice is low and round; a quiet cat prowling for quieter prey.

Serial Short: Part Two

noreply@blogger.com (TheLabRat) — Wed, 28 Mar 2007 08:35:00 +0000

There's this thing that happens only in movies and dreams; the main characters meet and connect in some way and then are seen together again some amount of time – specified or otherwise -- later. The unseen proceedings are implied and accepted. They aren't terribly important to the main sequence of events so they just get… skipped over. This gap in recorded time has always struck me as similar to a blackout. It's so easy, and ultimately futile, to obsess on the details missed between the moments; a pointless and addictive exercise that is the cause of many flights of fancy and pangs of regret, each more striking -- for better or worse -- than the last. Better to just move forward with what is certain.

My con-man and I are in a bar of the local dive variety. There are plenty around to choose from, each with its own stale smell and group of old timers lined up in a row. We're chatting about nothing in particular – small talk over beers. The words aren't what matters; it's the current beneath. My want mingles with his manipulation and the two form a sea of some heretofore unknown ectoplasmic ether that carries us both toward the inevitable.

"You know, I don't think I've ever been in this bar before." This is not entirely true, but my previous visits are few, far between, and never included placing an order. My face won't stand out as a repeat customer.

"Lot's of bars in the world. What's so special about this one?" He leans back and slow chugs his drink; lets me feel I'm controlling the conversation while he watches for my tell.

"I've just lived or worked within blocks of it for years. It's one of those bars that all the locals have a nickname for. But I've never had a drink here."

He sits up, suddenly alert. "And you're not one of the locals?" His edge is keener than I'd realized. This will be more fun than I thought. The sharp ones always are.

"I guess it's more home than Home is, at this point, but I'm an import by way of southern Illinois."

"And I thought you were just making fun of my accent."

"You have an accent?"

We both laugh, for entirely different reasons. His eyes linger on my mouth and mine on his hands. Everyone has their weakness.

He begins to test the waters. "You play pool?" He knows what thinks he needs to but hasn't settled on a goal yet; maybe a friendly wager. The night is young and the possibilities endless, as they say.

I'm only interested in one outcome so I answer his challenge with one of my own, "Only when I'm spun. Can't see the math, otherwise."

He laughs but offers nothing. "I haven't done that in a while. I got a little grass if you got a place to smoke it, though."

"I think I can manage that." I pound my beer, pay the tab, pack and light my cigarette before he has a chance to ask any questions. It's time to focus.
To be continued...

Serial Short: Part One

noreply@blogger.com (TheLabRat) — Sun, 25 Mar 2007 19:12:00 +0000

The following is inspired by fake events born of a real delusion.

He saunters by looking lost and shadily hot. I think that if he wandered into one of my stories, he’d be a drifting grifter with mostly repressed homicidal tendencies; just dangerous enough to be the focus of a fantasy. That flutter of fear would be a thrill.

He’d notice me smoking in the parking lot and ask if I knew how to find some obvious and nearby locale; the grocery up the street, perhaps. It’s an easy opening. People are better Samaritans than most would assume when it comes to the little things like that. They feel knowledgeable – like they are better people than they really are – when they help a stranger.

Then he’d ask to borrow my lighter for that Pall Mall he’s been chewing on for the last half block. His, “Thank you kindly,” would have a hint of well faked, old fashioned, country charm -- not because of the calming affect it has on most people, but because it weighs down time with extra syllables. He’d take the opportunity to assess me as a potential mark. Am I good for a couple of smokes and some change or could something more be had from me?

I’d smile and say, “You’re quite welcome,” with a little drawl of my own because I’m a mimic, which means more than either he or I are counting on.

There’d be an awkward pause as instincts war over moving on or honing in. And then he’d find some way to extend his stay; a backhanded compliment perhaps. “I like your hair. How do you get it to go like that?” His embarrassed laugh would dance along my spine.

And then I’m there -- no longer watching it in the theatre of my mind as he walks on by. Some philosophers with quantum fancies theorize that every choice we make creates another parallel universe. Every outlandish fiction we construct is a hard truth in another dimension. And every once in awhile, the filters in between allow us the tiniest taste of our other selves. The vastness opens and visions of another life tickle our brain.

“I sleep. Then I use this goo.” I smirk and roll my eyes, feigning slight offense. He falls for the smirk but not the eye roll. How perfect.

“Well it works for you.” He looks down and takes a drag just long enough to ooze some sex. “Makes you look a little wild.” Flatterer. “Are you a little wild?”

This opens the door for a patented ramble on my part. The surface-only banter conceals hidden agendas. We each size the other up under the distraction of my words, evaluating the defenses of our respective targets. One of us is dead wrong in our calculations. The other is oblivious to a monster barely kept in check. Under other circumstances – in other worlds -- we might have been partners in crime, had we actually met. In this particular scenario, darker games are afoot. Our goals are not mutually exclusive, per se. We’re on the same page but reading vastly different books.

To be continued...

big red ball

noreply@blogger.com (TheLabRat) — Sat, 21 Oct 2006 12:30:00 +0000

sh e
ap d over
         Eons
         of
[alternate]
         History
the forms
          b
           e
          n
         d

       t
        o
OPPRESSIVE
wills
{m
e
   l
    t}
into mystery..

*lost*
tran.log.sla.ic.tion
*lost*

s    i    l    e    n    c    e

the missing truth
a sultry
[intangible]
burden