My Rat On Crack  

Fanfare for the Common Man: My Rat on Crack
By Dan Brown
I have this rat on crack.
Or…
Take a wind-up toy and crank it as far as it’ll go. Then crank it some more.
You crank this thing until you think it’s going to break.
Then you set it down and press the button.
And off it goes, skipping like a flat stone across a shallow pond.
Or…
Take your standard two-year-old.
Hype her up on all the chocolate you can get your hands on.
Maybe throw in a couple Cokes or better yet, Mountain Dew.
Then shake her all over and throw her up in the air until she’s just about to puke.
Then give her back to her mother and watch the fun and fireworks.
That’s my dog.
My Chihuahua.
My Rat on Crack.
This dog runs like she has someplace to go and she needed to get there yesterday.
She barks at air.
She is a canine waste bi-product machine.
My dog is actually my daughter’s dog, a gift from her boyfriend when she was a freshman in college.
You know how the stunt works.
Boyfriend wants to score points and can’t afford flowers so he goes out and drops a couple hundred bucks on a puppy instead. He presents it to my daughter at her dorm room and she squeals all happy, then calls me up to tell me to come get her.
That’s how I became the proud owner of a Rat on Crack.
Guys… either we’ve all done it or we thought long and hard about doing it, and those of you who passed on the whole dog-as-a-gift option, I commend you for your solid sense of good judgment and steadfast self-esteem.
Sadly, I fell into the trap of trying to use an innocent puppy as a gift to barter a girl’s affections.
I was in college.
I wasn’t thinking clearly for a plethora of reasons, first and foremost being that she was the featured baton twirler for the Ball State Fighting Cardinal Marching Band and she could juggle flaming swords y’all.
I’d have gotten her Lassie if I could.
Or Under Dog even.
When I saw six-feet of knee-high boots and flaming sabers all sense of logic pulled an Elvis on me and left the building.
I was going to win this woman’s heart.
I had to be unique. Flowers simply wouldn’t do.
She got flowers like doughnuts – by the dozen.
I showed up with a single rose once and got all DeCarte on her, “Less is more.”
The simple beauty of a single rose is a statement that says: I can’t afford any more. Any lame-duck line about the simplistic beauty of the single red rose is just that, a lame-duck line. The guy who came up with the whole single red rose theory was one of those starving philosopher types who couldn’t afford a dozen either.
So I got her a dog.
I went to the Pound… if I couldn’t afford to buy her a dozen roses, I certainly couldn’t afford to drop a couple hundred bucks on a pure bred puppy.
I took home something small and puppy looking that was doomed for the gas chamber. I saved a dog’s life – a life that suffered a chronic case of Irritable Bowel Syndrome, and yes, I think all dogs are born with IBS.
It must be genetic.
I left it for her in her dorm room.
I left it with a note attached: LOVE ME.
Not signing my name was the only smart move I made in all this.
She never knew the dog came from me.
When I showed up that night ready to bask in all my glory as he who gave the most unique gift, the floor staff, residence hall manager, and university police were all gathered outside her dorm room.
She and her roommate were crying.
Terrified.
The room had been ransacked.
Soiled.
Destroyed.
Ripped apart.
Everything.
A barking dog was all they found inside.
Little Cujo.
A cruel prank they surmised.
The work of a psychologically imbalanced stalker type for sure.
They had to seal the room.
My baton twirler who could juggle fire and her roommate were relocated to another dorm.
I never saw her again after that fateful day.
So I have my Rat on Crack… with chronic IBS… and bladder control issues… who taught me the meaning of the word “willy-nilly.”
Her name is Bailey and I wouldn’t trade her for the world.