The True Story of Ben the Rat

I told part of the story of Ben the rat in the entry entitled "The Wild Bird Police..." (Posted below).
There is a bit more to the story...


This is the story about when I found out that a rat is not less than a bunny or parakeet. When I found out how cold I could be toward a poor little helpless creature, I was shocked at my cruelty because I am, after all, "an animal lover."



I had always thought of rats as poor candidates for pets. I would never have bought a guinea pig or any such rodent-like creature to keep as a pet, and I couldn't understand why anyone else would want such a creature living in their house. After all, don't people pay a lot of money to rid their dwellings of such vermin?



As I related in the story of the rescued hawk, I bought a young rat for the hawk to eat and the rat ended up living at my house for three years. But I feel I must "fess-up" and tell the rest of the story. This is not easy to tell.



As it happened, I made the mistake of buying a white rat, not knowing that wild hawks will not eat white rats because white rats are not found in the wild and the hawks will not recognize them as food.



So when the hawk refused to eat the rat I had offered, I decided I would have to get rid of the rat. The pet store sold rats to feed to snakes, so I was not about to waste my time driving back to the pet store to return this $1.25 item.

I put it back into the little box from the pet store. I got a bucket and filled it with water and dropped the box, with the rat inside, into the bucket. I pushed on the box until it filled with water and slowly sank in the water. Off I went to tend other matters.



An hour or so later, I returned to dispose of the rat and was shocked to find it swimming in circles in the bucket. I was absolutely horrified! The poor little thing had been swimming for an hour.



What had I done? How could I have been so heartless? The horror I felt was directed toward my shameful actions. What had I been thinking? I would find it very difficult, if not impossible, to forgive myself.



I was afraid to pick it up, having been bitten by a mouse which I rescued from the mouth of a cat years earlier. I thought biting might be the natural reaction of any frightened rodent. So I grabbed the bucket and took it outside and dumped it out on the ground.



The poor little rat stood swaying from side to side and shivered. Forgetting about bites, I scooped it up in my hands and took it into the house. I wrapped it in a hand towel and gently tried to dry it off. It continued to shiver so I got my hair dryer and blew warm air onto the rat, to warm and dry it. After a while it stopped shivering and I continued with the dryer until it was dry from nose to tail.



I petted the little guy and told it how sorry I was for having tried to kill it.



I got a large cage and hung it about two feet off the floor against the wall. It had a wire bottom so I put newspaper under the cage. Then I put some little bowls and a waterer in it. I added some scrap pine and an empty oatmeal box. Then I went to the kitchen and got some cheese and fresh veggies for the rat. I filled one of the bowls with birdseed. It was now ready for the rat.



He seemed very interested in everything in the cage and spent a great deal of time checking out each item. Then he grabbed the cheese and went inside of the oatmeal box.



I said to my little friend, "I think you need a name. How about Ben? I'll call you Ben. So, Ben, enjoy your new home. I'll see you later." I left him alone.



Later that day I went in and picked up Ben. I stroked the soft fur on his back and said, "It is time you met your roommates." I took him and held him in front of each of the six bird cages in the bird room. I let the birds get a look at the rat and gave Ben a chance to see all the birds and the rest of the room. Then I put him back in his cage.



Over the next few weeks I would visit Ben and hold him and pet him. If Ben was in his oatmeal box asleep when I visited him, I would tap on his cage and he would come out to see me.


Whatever I had for dinner I would bring Ben a small rat-sized portion. He grew into a large rat pretty fast and he got kind of chubby.



I brought him new toys to examine and chew on. Every time I emptied an oatmeal box, I would swap it out for the one in Ben's cage so he always had a clean one.



One day when I reached into his cage to pick him up he clamped his little teeth onto my finger. YOW! That hurt. The cut bled. I was rather upset, but after what he had been through, or rather after what I had put him through, I couldn't blame Ben for turning on me.



I never again tried to pick him up with my bare hands. I did pick him up while wearing heavy leather gloves and he bit the gloves.


To avoid future bites, I attached another small cage onto the side of the large one. I would lure Ben into the small cage and drop a door down to lock him in there while I cleaned the larger one or added toys or a new oatmeal box or food. Then I would raise the little door, which allowed free travel between the two cages.


I love watching critters and Ben was no exception. He was one of the most interesting creatures I had ever observed.


Ben spent hours re-arranging his two-room cage. He would move his food dishes around to suit himself, without tipping them or spilling them.


Ben used the extra bowls in his home to sort out various items I placed in there. For example, he put all of the little chicken bones into one bowl and all the sunflower seeds in another. But he put any bits of cloth into his oatmeal box.



There was a cup that caught the water that dripped from the waterer. Ben would use the water in the cup to bathe. He would dip his tiny hands in the water and wipe it onto his face and Ben even carefully cleaned his ears. He only did this to the parts he couldn't reach to lick.



I never tired of watching him, and my dog Chippy also liked to watch Ben. Chippy would put his nose right against Ben's cage. Well, right about the time that Ben bit me, he must have decided that Chippy would get no better treatment.

Ben actually bit a little chunk out of Chippy's nose. Chippy yelped and jumped back. But even before the blood came to the surface, Chippy had his nose back against the cage. I had to pull him away. I put some Neosporin on the wound as I had done with my own rat-bite, but Chippy licked it off pretty quick.
I had to remind Chippy to keep back after that, but he still managed to get two more bites over the next several weeks.



After the last bite, Chippy would bring one of his rubber balls into the room and poke the cage with the ball, as if he was trying to get Ben to bite the ball. Ben would come right over to where Chippy was jabbing the ball against the cage. It certainly didn't frighten Ben.


I always maintained a respectful distance between us. Ben and I had an understanding about boundaries and we got along just fine for next few years. He seemed content. He got the best food in great variety, plenty of new things to investigate, and lots of one-way conversation.



One day when I came to feed Ben, he was in his oatmeal box and I tapped on his cage.
But he didn't move.
He was dead.



I picked him up and stroked his fur and told him how much I had enjoyed his company for the three years and I was sorry that we would have no more visits.
I wrapped him in a clean cloth and put him in his oatmeal box, taping the ends shut.
I buried him in the little pet cemetery in my back yard.
I had tears in my eyes as I said goodbye to my remarkable little friend, Ben.

The Wild Bird Police, Hawks, and a Rat

I watched the crows who, in an organized effort, chased a hawk out of the area. The hawk had arrived to prey on my chicken flock.
The crows spent a lot of time around my yard because they got easy meals here. There was always chicken feed, and there were a lot of eggs for them to eat which were too dirty for people. I tossed the messy eggs into an area of my yard to which the crows had easy access, which was outside of the chicken area.
This was indeed a very good reason for the crows to want to stay in the area: delicious fresh eggs, which didn't have to stolen from a nest. There would be no battle with irate parent mockingbirds. There would only be total enjoyment of the eggs found on the ground.
I would have put the eggs out for them anyway, but I was glad for the benefit of the guard patrol by the aggressive crows. They protected their territory and drove off the hawks which had come to attempt to carry a nice fresh meal of live chicken to a secluded dining area.
I was always alerted by the furious "Caw-caw!" when a hawk came into the area. The crows were kind of like bird police.
I have always liked crows. When I was a second-grade student at Pilgrim Memorial Elementary School in Provincetown a whole lot of years ago, there was a crow who visited the playground at recess time. Someone had tamed the bird and it could talk.
The children would gather around and call out words, and the bird would return the favor, repeating some of the words.
I don't remember if an adult attended the bird or if it came on its own. I just remember that the bird talked and it really made an impression on me and I was delighted by the visits.
One day the teacher announced to the children that our crow friend would not be coming to visit any more because it had been shot and killed by some mean person. There were a lot of tears falling that day (and not one grief councilor in sight).
It is clear to anyone who knows me that I have a fondness for birds of all kinds. I even have great admiration for the hawks which have plagued my chicken flock.
I once rescued a hawk from the side of a highway and tended it for four days over a long holiday weekend, until I could take it to the local wild bird shelter. It took the bird a few months at the shelter to recover from its head injury, but it was eventually released back into the wild.
While the hawk was in my care, I gave it water by hooking and lifting the upper beak with a sports-type water bottle and squeezing water into the opened beak. It would not drink from a dish, so I gave it water in this way several times each day. I also offered it various grains and seeds to eat, spreading it in the bottom of the box, but the hawk would have none of it.
I didn't know how long the hawk had been on the side of the road, so I worried that it may have been a long time since it had eaten.
I went to the local pet supply store and bought a small live rat, hoping the hawk would take in some nourishment in the form of the rat. I dropped the rat into the box with the hawk and turned away, not wanting to witness the carnage. A half-hour later I went back to the box and saw the rat sitting at the feet of the hawk. I walked away and returned in an hour. The rat was still in the box, enjoying the grain and seeds.
I put on my heavy leather gloves to protect against hawk bites, and removed the rat from the box.
Now what in the world was I going to do with this rat?
Ben the rat lived in a large cage in my bird room for about three years until he died of natural causes. I was glad the hawk hadn't eaten Ben.

Oh, Henry!

It was in the year 2000 while driving home from my restaurant after a long day's work that I spotted the duckling walking along the side of the road.


I thought, "It's 2 am. That duck should not be wandering around right now."


This was the beginning of a few miracles centered on that little orphan.


I put my 1965 Chevy in reverse and backed up to where I had seen it.


I had my mother with me because I took care of her as she suffered from dementia and I was her only care-giver. She had told me many times over the years that she never wanted to live in a nursing home and I was honoring her wishes, even if it required unconventional arrangements.


I told her I would be right back and got out of the car. I approached the duckling slowly so that I wouldn't frighten it, but it didn't seem to mind being picked up and carried. I think it was in shock and I could see by the street light that there was some sort of injury to it's left eye. I got back in the car and handed the duck to my mother and told her to hold it, but not too tight.


I didn't live far from the restaurant so it was a short drive. When I got home I took the ducking and held it kind of like a small football, between my forearm and my body, while I helped my mother out of the car and into the house.


My dogs Pookie and Noah greeted us at the door, as usual, and I let them have a quick sniff of the duck, telling them, "It's a baby." These words were code to Pookie meaning she was not to harm, but protect the bird. Pookie was an amazing dog and always seemed to understand every word I said. Noah was not very good with understanding spoken words, but he was so gentle that he did not have to be told anything regarding the bird. He was gentle to every creature and would leave the room if you even raised your voice. But Pookie was territorial, and if I didn't tell her that a critter was a "baby," she would try to chase it away or attack it if it didn't leave. She was the same way with people. She always had to have me say they were "okay" or she would not let them near the house or the car. She always protected her own.


Noah left the room to go back to sleep, but Pookie stayed in the livingroom watching my every move.


I should have gotten Mom ready for bed, but she was fascinated by our new friend so I let her stay up and watch me work on my patient's injured eye..


I talked to Mom the while I evaluated his injury. There was no eyeball in the socket, just a lot of puss. I got the syringe I use to feed baby birds and other small critters. I filled it with warm water and squirted it into the eye socket, still football-holding the duck, but tipping it's head over the bathroom sink. The duck didn't seem to mind.


Now I could see that the hole was filled with a lot of small worms. (Yeah, I know that's gross, but "facts is facts.")


I got the hydrogen peroxide bottle, filled the syringe, squirted some into the socket and the poor little duck started to freak! I quickly switched back to water and gave it a long rinse. The worms were still there.


I walked out into the kitchen to look for something to use on those worms. I was totally amazed to find that the bottle of wormer I kept for my dogs was on the counter. I hadn't put it there.


I merely said, "Thank you, Lord." and grabbed the bottle, shook it up and went back to the bathroom to fill the syringe yet again. I put a good amount into the duck's eye socket and the duck quietly endured my efforts.


Suddenly the worms began sliding out. There were a lot more of them in there than I thought would fit. I repeated the wormer applications until no worms came out.


I then switched to warm water and when the water ran clear, I applied some of my favorite ointment, Neosporin, to the cavity. Then I put the stopper in the sink and allowed it to fill with water. I gently placed the duck in the sink and it began the typical head dipping wash that ducks do. After it seemed satisfied with it's bath, I pulled the drain plug and when the water had drained, the duck shook off the excess water from it's feathers.


I picked it up and brought it to Mom for inspection.


I asked her what she thought we should name it and she answered, "Henrietta." That was Mom's own name. I told her that was a wonderful name for our little duck. I had her hold Henrietta while I went about making a little pen in a corner of the living room. I found a large roasting pan which I hadn't used in quite a while. It would be a perfect makeshift pond for little Henrietta.


I took Henrietta and stroked her for a while and she settled down onto my lap. I let her have a nap.


I couldn't believe that I was not tired even after working for 20 hours, but I needed to get Mom into bed. I was sure she was exhausted.


I got some crushed corn from the fridge out back where I stored my chicken food and put the duck in the pen with her dinner.


Mom got into bed and I tucked her in and returned to watch my new house guest. When she was done eating I put her into her "pond" and she drank and floated and looked totally content. Pookie lay nearby and I repeated "It's a baby, Pookie." And I knew she would never harm little Henrietta.

Pookie and I retired to bed.

When I got up in the morning, the duck was already eating the left-overs from the night before. I went to the kitchen and found some veggies and salad greens to put in the pen. I got showered and dressed and got Mom up. After she was washed and dressed, I checked on Henrietta. She wasm in her pond. After changing the paper on the floor of her pen and adding more food, we left for work.

I started getting things ready for the lunch crowd while Mom watched TV until the bus arrived to pick her up for day care, where she went five days a week for six hours each day. That day care was such a blessing. Sometimes Mom would bring home crafts she had made. One day she brought me a little pom-pom catepillar. I glued it on the dashboard of my car and it is still there today.

When we got home later that night, we said hello to the dogs and let them out and greeted our new house guest. Henrietta seemed to be enjoying her roasting-pan-pond. I cleaned up her pen, put some food down and Mom and I watched her for a while. When she was done eating, I picked her up and sat down, letting Henrietta sit on my lap. She nestled her head under my arm and was soon fast asleep. I could smell the duck smell of her. She smelled just like the ducks I had cooked and eaten in the past. I said to her "I will never eat duck again." And I haven't. Years later I started eating Kosher and was delighted that duck is not an approved food. I was glad that there are a lot of people who don't eat duck. I wish no one did.

After we had her for a couple of weeks, I decided Henrietta might be happier roaming around in the tall grass in the back yard during the day while I was at work. There were 12 chickens out there to keep her company and she could hunt for bugs and greens to eat. I told her we would be back later.

When we came home, I couldn't find her out there so I told Pookie to "find the baby" and off she went, hurrying through the grass. When Pookie stood still, I went to her and there was Henrietta, asleep in the grass. I picked her up and carried her into the house, praising Pookie for a job well done.
The next night we did the exact same thing. But on the third night, when I opened the back door to go hunt for Henrietta, she was already there on the porch waiting for me. She walked right in. From then on she was at the door when I got home.
After another month or so I noticed Henrietta's feathers were changing color. As the days went by she really started getting gorgeous feathers. As she sat on my lap each night I could see the intricacies of each feather's design. I saw how a mark on one feather lined up perfectly with a mark on the next feather and the next, until it formed a ring around her neck. "Hey, wait a minute," I said to her. "You aren't a girl duck. You're a boy duck!" His adult feathers had revealed his sex.
I told Mom we were going to have to start calling the duck Henry.
A few days later, I noticed one of my chickens was missing. This was the first of a string of chicken disappearances. I started coming home earlier so I could lock up the coop and bring Henry in to try to keep them all safe from whatever predator was snatching them. I suspected it was a coyote. It seemed the coyote caught on, and would come earlier for it's meal. When there were only two chickens left, I would come home at closing time and put the birds in, then return to the restaurant for the clean up.
One day when I got home, Henry was not there waitng for me. I had Pookie help me search, but Henry was not to be found. Mom and I were heartbroken. The next morning I went all over the neighborhood calling for him and asked a few neighbors if they had seen a duck. No luck. I didn't give up hope and would call for him each evening and each morning.
Once the last two chickens were gone, I didn't keep any chickens again until I was able to put up a good system of fences, years later.
But as it turns out, the story doesn't end here.
A few days ago I was chatting with a neighbor that I had only waved to before. The subject of coyotes came up and I said that I didn't like coyotes at all. They are not native to this area, but were introduced by meddling humans who think they know how to balance nature better than nature itself. I said the coyotes had eaten all of the chickens I had years ago, and had even gotten my duck.
He asked, "You used to have a duck?"
I said, "Yes..."
He said, "Did it have only one eye?"
I said, "Yes..."
He said, "I was wondering why that duck was so friendly! It came to my house down by the pond over there. It just showed up one day and I went and got some bread and it ate right out of my hand. It was there every day for about two weeks and then one day it showed up with a female. I never saw it again after that."
What absolute joy filled me at that moment. Henry hadn't gotten taken by coyotes. As it turned out, he could have been to my house numerous times during those weeks. If he had come during the day while I was at work, I never would have known it. I worked seven days a week.
Was it just luck that had him go to that house and bring his mate with him on the last visit? Was it coincidence that had the conversation with my neighbor turn to the topic of coyotes? Why did the mere mention of my ducks dissappearance cause him to remember the one-eyed duck from eight years ago? I think God was involved in all of it. I think God loves us enough to know what will make us happy and that He can move heaven and earth just to bring joy to the heart of one of His children.