"Mom, can Ralph spend the weekend with
us?"
"Sure, as long as it's okay with his Mom."
Ryan, my eight-year-old son,
posed the question while I was in the middle of
cooking dinner. This is a difficult feat he knows requires all of my
attention, thereby making me an easy mark for granting requests. But
when Ryan
went off to do his homework, the truth hit me.
Ryan doesn't have a friend named
Ralph. As I soon discovered, Ralph was a white rat that lived in the
third grade
classroom. Everyone took turns babysitting Ralph for the weekend then
wrote about
his adventures in a journal to share with the rest of the class.
When I
picked Ryan up from school on Friday, he was sitting on the grass
surrounded
by at least a dozen kids. Ralph had made my son instantly popular.
Ryan
carried Ralph's cage while I got the backpack filled with shavings for
his bed,
his food, a book about rats and a list of instructions.
While
I can't
say the weekend was an unqualified success, (Ralph got lost in the
living room
for a couple of hours the first day and our dog knocked the cage over
twice), I
do know that Ralph changed my mind about the idea of dogs and cats as
traditional pets for kids. As
soon as Ralph
went back to school, Ryan started to beg for a rat of his own.
"I'll
take
care of it myself, you won't have to do a thing," he promised.
"We
already
have a pet," I said, reminding him of our family dog.
"That's
different, Mom. Baron belongs to the whole family. I want a rat that
belongs to
just me."
Although
I
understood the desire, I had trouble adjusting to the idea of a rodent
taking
up permanent residence in our home. I ignored Ryan's request until the
night he
approached me with an oatmeal carton in one hand and a piece of paper
in the
other. He handed me the paper. On it he had listed the cost of a rat,
cage,
food for two months and the necessary shavings. Then he dumped the
oatmeal
carton out on the table. Out came piles of nickels and dimes, quarters
and
pennies.
"I sold
Joey four baseball cards," he said, pulling two crumpled dollars out of
his pocket. "It's my money and I think I should be able to spend it on
what I want. I really want a rat of my own. Please, Mom. And if I don't
take
care of it, you can get rid of it, I promise."
The next
weekend, Shadows, who looked a lot like Ralph, came to live with us.
"You
have
to remember to feed him every day and . . ."
"I
know,
Mom. Don't worry. I'll take good care of him."
True
to his
word, Ryan did.
Every
day after
school Ryan disappeared into his room. He'd sit on his bed, hold
Shadows and
talk. Shadows heard all about Ryan's day at school, his fight with a
neighbor
and how learning math wasn't fair. Shadows knew when Ryan was picked
last for
baseball, when he forgot to do his homework and why he didn't think he
should
be forced to eat green beans.
Shadows
was
better than a diary. His whiskers tickled and made Ryan laugh. He
couldn't tell
anyone the secrets Ryan shared. He gave unconditional love and he gave
it only
to Ryan.
I
got used to
seeing Shadows sit on Ryan's shoulder as Ryan vacuumed around the house
or took
out the garbage. I began to notice other changes. Ryan's room stayed
cleaner
because it made it easier to find Shadows when he let him loose. His
homework
got done with less fuss, so he had more time to play with Shadows. And
he had
learned how to save money from his allowance to buy Shadows a bigger
cage or
his favorite sunflower seed treats.
Suddenly,
after
four years of devoted friendship, Shadows died. Ryan, now twelve years
old, was
heartbroken.
"I
don't
understand, Mom. I fed him. I cleaned his cage. I loved him. Why did he
die?"
I
wrapped my
arms around my son and held him as he cried. I had no easy answers. As
a mother
wanting to shield her child from every hurt and disappointment, I was
angry. If
only I had said no to getting the rat. If only I had known that rats
have a
very short life span. If only I could have kept him from being hurt.
Together, Ryan
and I buried Shadows in the backyard and planted a red geranium bush
nearby to
give him some shade.
I
soon forgot
all the wonderful times Shadows and Ryan had shared. I forgot, but Ryan
didn't,
not even after he got Rocky, his second rat.
Ryan
is thirteen
now, and every once in a while, he'll look out at the bright red
geranium
blossoms, smile, and say, "Hey, Mom, remember when I had Shadows? We
sure
had a lot of fun. He was my best friend."
And I have to
smile back. Having a best friend is important, even if he is a
rat.
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