By Julia Zichello

Julia Zichello is an evolutionary biologist living at 10025, the zip code with the highest number of rat complaints in Manhattan.

 On April 1st, the time that trash bags are set out on the street changes to 8 p.m. to control the rats. So, it’s the perfect time to come clean. Through a series of circumstances, which involved two sons, an ex-wife, and a familial propensity for contrarianism — we inherited two pet rats (“fancy rats”) to care for. They are in a cage in our apartment, while just a few floors below on the street—well, you know that part already.

Once I got over their tails, and that their brethren ate my car, it’s just like having hamsters or guinea pigs — except that they are many times smarter, more curious and engaged with the world. They live an examined life. And are clearly very sensitive to our presence, to smells, and especially, to sounds (of which there are many): radiator pipes plinking, the steampunk symphony of the garbage truck, the street cleaner, doors opening and closing all day long. And when I grind the coffee, the white one sometimes does a little twirl in the cage, but I don’t think it is a coffee dance. It’s more like a stress spin. Poor thing.

Rats have been used in scientific research since at least the 16th century and alongside mice and fruit flies, there are no other organisms on Earth that have contributed so much to scientific knowledge about human biology and disease in neuroscience, genetics, cardiovascular research, psychology, and pharmaceutical research. And it is not a coincidence that rats are typically used (instead of mice) in experiments which require complex learning tasks. I can see why.

Once I put them both in a newspaper-lined bathtub, while I cleaned their cage in the other room. One is white with dark grey markings, and the other is unmistakably, just brown (technically ‘agouti’ say the rat purists). When I went back into the bathroom, they were rearing up on their hind legs to sniff the sweet air of freedom, their dark eyes shining. It was cute. And then bam! The brown one jumped onto the edge of the tub. I grabbed him, my heart raced (his probably did too) and I pushed him back down. I can’t let them roam freely in the apartment because there are too many nooks and crannies, like behind the stove, where I was afraid he might disappear, into rat Narnia. But with an admirable persistence and agility he jumped up to the edge again. I felt for him. I did. And I rooted for him to get out, philosophically, if not actually.

The rat species on the street is Rattus norvegicus, the Brown Rat, which originated in Asia—and it is the same one we have in the cage. Fancy (domesticated) rats have radically different personalities than wild rats. Pet rats aren’t aggressive. Instead, they are sweet and social. Like a pug, not a wolf. Our two rats have different personalities from each other. Sylvie (the brown one) is bolder and clings to the cage bars with his tiny hands unabashedly begging for food, while Pelé (the white hooded rat) is more secretive and when we feed him, he immediately hides the food for later.

As for the bedding, mostly we buy it from the pet store, it’s just soft paper scraps. But a few times I have ripped up a receipt from the West Side Market and thrown it in the cage. Funny enough, they love it. As soon as the lightweight paper flutters to the bottom of the cage, they immediately get to work. They grab it and frantically stuff it away into this little plastic box we have for them to hide in. There is something instinctive, feverish, and kind of adorable about this behavior — like they desperately need to know the price of milk and lemons these days.

Over the last few months, I have really grown to appreciate these two other mammals in our midst. Most people would. We joke about no longer using the “derogatory” term “ratty” to describe something worn out or shabby. And for now, they are the perfect pets for us: less work than a dog, more present than a bunny, and kinder than a cat. Rats live only about two years, and ours are about 18 months old. So, I hope they are happy, otherwise – what’s the point?

Rats don’t love the light of day. They are crepuscular, active mainly at dawn and again at dusk, which sounds almost — romantic. And it’s why I wait until the sun sets to vacuum now, so as not to wake them. But mostly, it reminds me that the movement of the garbage time probably isn’t going to change anything, except the time the rats inevitably join the garbage. So, if you are walking on the street at 7pm, you won’t see them feasting and rushing around piles of garbage anymore. How lovely. But absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. They will still be there, just a little later. Dinner at 8, for two (million).