The Rodent is a rat

The dispersal of pellets in the evening has not been to my satisfaction. The Man, now inexplicably placed in charge of mess duties, is imprecise and haphazard in his portioning.

My brother continues to be placed in his private feeding chamber with his meat-sludge each day — so the Rodent and I have the kitchen area to ourselves, and keep generally to our respective corners during the munching hour. Except that the Rodent, ever the eccentric, has adopted a peculiar new habit: He takes a mouthful of pellets from his bowl and hauls them into one of the adjacent chambers, where he spits them out and nibbles at leisure before returning to secure another mouthful. Perhaps he is unable to eat with his back to me. Understandable.

Unfortunately, the Man's incompetence presents us with a dilemma. Due the Rodent's elaborate and protracted dining methodology, I am often the first to finish my meal. And, as has frequently been the case, my ration is oft unsatisfying. In these situations, it is clearly my mandate and prerogative to rectify the situation myself, to balance the scales and effect a just redistribution of sustenance.

So naturally, I achieve this by heading directly to the Rodent's bowl and taking my due. This is natural law at work, and the Rodent should recognize this. Alas, I know now that I have overestimated the canine sense of order and personal honor. It grieves me to report it, but there is a traitorous coward in my midst.

For yesterday, as I supplemented my dinner with some of the Rodent's, he returned to his bowl, and finding me there, looked much distressed and aggrieved. He assumed a plaintive and worrisome countenance, his ears drooped, brow wrinkled, tail lowered. I gave him a direct but nonthreatening look. This is how it works, thou weepy dog. You wait your turn and have my leavings. He watched morosely as I nibbled with deliberate confidence. Pecking order. Dogs are supposed to understand such concepts.

But then, the Rodent wandered pathetically from the kitchen into the main chamber, and I heard him whimpering to the Man. And oh, what a sad story he must have told! For a moment later, the Man lunged into the kitchen brandishing his dastardly squirt-ray. And bellowing my name, he opened fire.

I took four blasts point-blank to the face before I could roll away from the dish and into a defensive posture. Trigger-happy and out for blood, the Man did not let up. I wheeled and broke for the hatch, and that bastard gave chase and let me have another half-dozen zaps on my posterior before I cleared the door.

Naturally, it was pouring rain outside, and within seconds I was thoroughly soaked and humiliated. I glanced back at the hatch portal and saw the Man glaring after me. He pointed his finger and I could see his mouth still moving, but could no longer hear him over the downpour. Nor did I much care to.

I withdrew to the nearest bush and waited for the rain to let up (and the heat to dissipate) before returning to the fortress. And I reflected on this unfortunate development. So this is how we settle our grievances, Mr. Rodent? We shamelessly employ pathos to rally armed mercenaries to our cause? That is hardly an avenue of respect.

You have opened a door that cannot be easily closed, my friend. And rest assured, you are not the only one who can pull the Man's strings. Ask not for whom the Man squirts. Soon he will squirt for thee.