I met a rat once, sane as could be. He had manners, he was charming, he held the door for me. We could discuss literature and philosophy for hours. Then he had to go to work in the shithouse. He changed. He stayed out late and never called. He drank. He stank. He started watching shows about trampy suburbanites.
Still, I don't know if all those traits were always somewhere below the surface, or if the shithouse induced them. He told me once about his Uncle Algernon, who was doing quite well for himself...then BOOM. Off the deep end.
Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of rats? There but for the grace of dog go I?
