The Ratman

For some reason, every time Scrape goes to a major city–which is often, since he’s an airline pilot–it lies down, rolls over, and shows him its seedy underbelly.

Last week, he was in Rochester, which he swears is almost entirely populated with the walking dead. Tonight, he’s in San Francisco.

“I swear, I’m not making this up,” he said when he called me earlier. “I just saw a homeless guy with a rat.””

“A rat?””

“A pet rat,” he said. “He had it in his shirt.””

Scrape is not a fan of rats, so he found this horrific. I thought it was kind of cool–but then, I think rats are cute.

“I suppose you want me to give him money,” Scrape said.

“Well, he’s got to feed the rat somehow,” I said. “Give him money and get a picture of it for me.””

I could hear the eye-roll over the phone, but he proved once again that he truly loves me by setting out with his camera in search of the Ratman.

He called back an hour later.

“I couldn’t find him,” he said. “But I just had Chinese food, and I think I know where the rat went.””