Stories

My pet rat Hopper deserved both companionship and a lasting legacy following his stellar performance during my Behavior Lab final. Although I failed him in what mattered most, I managed to provide a young female for him to make a litter of pups. With the brevity of a rat’s lifespan in mind, I planned to keep his lineage going long after he was gone. That summer, I acquired Dot, named for the small, white spot that dotted her forehead. It only took a few brief pairings to get the desired result. Hopper surprised me with his aggression and forcefulness towards Dot, and each mating left me with a scar of guilt. From then on, the two remained separate.

Three weeks later, a warm pile of hairless and helpless pups cuddled against Dot’s lactating belly. As they weaned, I offered all but two babies to my classmates for their Behavior Lab exam. One pup in particular sparked rivalry among my peers. Everyone vied for one specific female on account of the adorable dichotomous coloration of her face. Half was black, and the other half was white. I kept her to prevent a fight and named her Domino, or Domi for short. The other female I held onto from that litter I called Dribble for the tiny white splotches trailing down her dark forehead.

The exotic animal program and my evening job consumed all of my time. Unlike Hopper, who had traveled with me to school during his early days, the girls stayed home with their mother and rarely socialized with me. As adults, they feared me as if they were wild rats. Whenever I entered the room, they would dart to the safety of their plastic igloo, reluctantly coming out later when I settled onto my bed to study.

One evening, a metallic chirping announced that both Domi and Dribble had come out to run on their rat wheel. I watched in amusement as the sisters raced madly together, side-by-side. Suddenly, to my surprise, one of them clamped down with her paws on the wheel’s mesh surface and spun wildly as her sister continued to run. After a couple of seconds, the wheel came to a halt. After both girls caught their breath, they resumed, bringing the wheel to its maximum speed. This time, the other sister gripped the wheel tightly while the other continued running. For the next ten minutes, both sisters took turns spinning each other on the wheel. It was not just an example of play but cooperation in a species known for its incredible intelligence and strong social bonds.

While Hopper lived for close to four years, Dot and her daughters lived a more typical rat lifespan of two. Dot passed away first, followed a few months later by Dribble. Near the end of her life, Domi developed a mammary tumor that I had surgically removed for her sake. Domi hated the stitches nearly as much as she hated me, and I feared she would pull open her surgical wound before it healed. The evening after surgery, I sat with her for hours on the floor, poking her each time she attacked the stitching. In her eyes, I read both misery and resentment. Although she never realized it, my persistent antagonism was an act of kindness and love.

Domi successfully healed, but she passed not long after. The regrets I harbor for all my rats seem limitless. They deserved far more than what I could offer them. Still, they made the most of what they had. Hopper loved my less-than-frequent scratches and tickles. Dot cherished her daughters, while Dribble and Domino adored each other and relished their rat wheel. I try not to pity them for my shortcomings as their owner. Like us, my rats lived their lives in a cage beyond their control and defined by deprivation, but they, too, found simple pleasures to make it tolerable.

Although Obi enjoyed human contact, my touching privileges did not extend to his tail. Imbued with his unique scent, that part of his anatomy announced his identity to the world. The one time I tried to touch it, he seemed to grow uneasy, so I never tried again. With Janga, she forbade all physical contact without exception. Early in Janga’s tenure at Moorpark, her isolation-induced insecurity drove her onto the lap of her first trainer in the fall when she was in season. However, after her introduction to Obi, any attempts to lay a finger on her resulted in a violent response. Even the students that followed me struggled for a full year to train Janga to accept the touch of a stick against her soft fur.

Janga knew that Obi enjoyed sitting with me for the grooming and massages I offered but never seemed to understand why he permitted it. She realized that Obi received something enriching from sitting with me, so when our tensions subsided near my graduation, she often sat with me, waiting impatiently for something that would make it worthwhile. This conflict between inexplicable expectation and her disdain for human touch created a conundrum, for I knew Janga did not want what Obi sought. Unable to resolve the dilemma, we sat quietly together until she eventually gave up and wandered off.

Once or twice I hesitantly reached out to see if Janga had changed her mind, but each time she swiped at me aggressively in response. Only once did I barely manage to touch the tip of a few strands of her fur. One day she fell asleep next to me, lying prone with one foot supported by the bars and her tail just centimeters from my hand. Cautiously, I reached out and brushed the very tip of her fluffy fur. Janga stirred, and in a moment, she sat awake, looking around uncertainly, as if she had dreamed the intrusion. Wisely, I pretended nothing had happened. Eventually, she dozed off again, and this time I let her lie.

I have had the luxury of touching other ring-tailed lemur tails after graduating, but each lemur was under anesthesia for a routine physical exam. While volunteering at the Santa Barbara Zoo, the veterinary staff invited me to participate. The fur was longer, stiffer, and sparser than anywhere else on their body. Just like a cat, the fluffy fur inflates its size. The actual tail is surprisingly thin and bony. When I ran my fingers down its length, I noticed that each band of black or white fur corresponded with an individual vertebrate. I have never seen this fact mentioned in primate anatomy books. This one-to-one correlation may suggest that the vertebrate’s genes might regulate the tail’s ringed coloration instead of the skin. That might explain why rare albino ring-tailed lemurs still have black and white bands extending to the tip.

During my three years in California, while receiving my exotic animal education and a year beyond, I lived with a kind, old Buddhist teacher named Glenn and his cat, Bodhi. Meeting Glenn felt serendipitous, for he was the perfect roommate with the best available room at the most affordable price at a time when I needed to demonstrate frugality to the utmost. I learned of his room for rent by calling the college upon my acceptance. His was one of several available advertisements, but I knew it was the only option for me. After a lengthy, long-distance phone conversation, we agreed to a lease.

After several days of driving cross-country from the Midwest, I arrived at Glenn's doorstep at the end of the cul-de-sac. As I reached to ring the doorbell, a short-haired mackerel tabby walked up from behind and sat down next to me. With a haughty, regal glance, her eyes spoke plainly: “When that door opens, I’m going in. But you are not.” To her disappointment, Glenn welcomed me cordially. A lean, sprightly man in his late 70s, he greeted me with a broad smile and a warm hug. As he invited me inside, Bodhi scampered past the both of us.

Bodhi, I learned, lacked any fondness for people. I knew better than to reach out and try to touch her. For a long time, she seemed no more than a mobile fixture of Glenn's exotically decorated house. Even her owner received her aloof treatment. Glenn told me that sometimes in the mornings, she would lie on his bed barely within reach, and if he extended his hand very slowly, she would briefly allow him to touch her.

I took a different approach. Sometimes when I visited Glenn in the living room, Bodhi perched herself at the top of the couch. When she did so, I would rest my hand nearby. For many months, I never once tried to touch her. Then one day, Bodhi showed some interest. Approaching cautiously, she began to sniff my fingers. Holding still, I waited until she started to rub her face against them to scent-mark me. Slowly, I lifted my hand to give her better access, and eventually, I managed to caress the elusive cat's fur. Once I began to rub behind her ears, Bodhi lived up to her name. Translated from Sanskrit, “bodhi” literally means “to have woken up and understood.” Indeed, Bodhi now realized a value in associating with humans. Soon she became hooked on my ever- popular pet massages.

Within days, the once reclusive cat began following me around the house, meowing loudly for my attention. In the evenings, she would paw at my bedroom door ceaselessly. Even though it terrified my rat, Hopper, who sat on an inaccessible shelf nearby, I let her sleep on my bed a couple of nights. It was enough to make Glenn green with envy, though fortunately, it did not cause a rift between us. Instead, he appreciated the demonstration of my natural skill with animals.

Sadly, my days with Bodhi were few. Not long after her awakening, she slipped outside late one evening when a new, second roommate carelessly opened the front door. That night she never returned. Although we looked for her over the coming days, we found no trace. Tragically, a small part of Glenn vanished with his beloved cat that night, never to be seen again.

Unlike the cat he cherished, Glenn has lived a long life. Just before he moved away, I returned to California and visited him. I still missed Bodhi, but seeing her owner and experiencing the familiar sights of that elaborately decorated house soothed my aching heart. I have visited Glenn at his new home a few times since. We remain in touch to this day. Now in his 90s, he is still the kindly, chipper man I have always known. He is a dear friend, and I know that Bodhi lives on in his heart.