The Cage I Keep Selling:

They don’t live long. That’s the part you’re warned about if you let people know you love pet rats. They’ll tell you not to get attached. They’ll remind you they’re “just feeders.” They’ll talk about their short lifespans like it should somehow make the loss easier.

It doesn’t.

I’ve been rescuing feeder rats for decades. I walk into those pet stores—usually the back corner or some hidden storage area where they keep the animals destined for snake bellies—and I look for the smallest ones. The ones the size of my thumb. The ones too soft to be seen. And I choose them.

They come home with me. I sit with them for a while—quiet, present—until I hear their names. Then they get hammocks and yogurt drops and whispered stories at 2 a.m. They ride on my shoulder and nudge their noses under my fingers. They recognize my voice. They bond to me in a way no one warned me about.

Most people don’t realize rats are capable of complex social bonding, long-term memory retention, and emotional empathy—including distress vocalizations when a companion is removed. These aren’t guesses. They’re measurable behaviors. I will skip the "lab testing" rant and just say that lab rats actually perform better—physically, cognitively, and emotionally—when they’re handled gently, spoken to, and allowed to form real relationships. Some studies even show that familiar human contact reduces stress-related inflammation and extends lifespan. That’s not sentiment. That’s neurology.

And then they die.

It’s always too soon. Sometimes it's sickness. Sometimes it's age. Sometimes it’s just the injustice of nature. But each time, it breaks me in a way that feels stupid to explain—because we’re not supposed to grieve rodents. Not like this.

So I do what I always do.

• I sell the cage.
• I donate the toys.
• I throw out the liners.
• I swear I won’t do it again.

Not because I stopped loving them—but because loving them hurts too much.

But the problem is, I can’t not love them.

A few months pass. The silence in the house is deafening. And that urge—the one that never really went away—comes roaring back.

So I go back.

• I buy another cage.
• I replace the things I gave away.
• And I rescue two more from a bin full of hopelessness.

It’s a cycle I’ve repeated more times than I can count. Some people spend their lives fostering dogs or saving wild horses. Me? I fall in love with rats no one else wanted to love. And it wrecks me. And I do it again and again.

Because I’m not just trying to save them from death. I’m giving them something to die with—a name, a touch, a home... love.

Their cage was taller than most bookshelves—designed not just to house them, but to honor them. Before anyone asks—yes, I’ve heard the “If you loved them, they wouldn’t be in a cage” argument.

But let’s be clear: the cage isn’t a punishment. It’s a safe home. A sanctuary—a place they can retreat to, claim as their own, and feel secure in. I design it like a world, not a prison: multi-levels, textures, hammocks, tunnels, foraging rings, and even a themed top bin for overflow fun. It’s stimulation, not confinement.

And they’re not in there 24/7. They hang out on my desk while I work. They explore a massive jungle gym-style collapsible playpen that takes up my entire living room floor. They curl up in shirt pockets, shoulder ride while I move around, and join me for quiet moments. They even walk the neighborhood on my shoulder to check out the trick-or-treaters on Halloween night.

The cage is never the whole story. It’s just one chapter of a bigger life I build for them. I didn’t just give them a home. I gave them a world. A space that said: You matter. You’re safe. Explore everything.

One of mine—Socrates, or "Sox" as we called him—was a European hooded. His cagemate Blue was a Russian Blue. They both lived far beyond what most expect: three years old, which for rats is already exceptional. The vet was surprised. But I wasn’t. I had nursed them through multiple rounds of respiratory infections (super common in rats), medicated them by hand, and watched their eyes light up every time they saw me—every single day.

Sox was calm and observant. Blue was more active. Both were sweet, intuitive cuddlers. I got pooped on, peed on, kissed on the nose and cheek—and every bit of it meant trust. In rat language, that’s how you know they feel safe. For the record, rat poop is dry, odorless, and ridiculously easy to clean. Their pee? Minimal, usually clear, and not remotely gross unless you’re looking for a reason to be offended.

People who’ve never lived with rats often assume they’re dirty. That couldn’t be further from the truth. Rats are obsessively clean. They clean themselves constantly—not just their fur, but each other, their bedding, their food bowls, and even their hammocks. I’ve watched mine reorganize blankets, fold corners, and groom each other with more precision than some humans manage. Their cages always smell like whatever non-allergenic baby fabric softener I use—not some imagined sewer stench people love to throw around. If anything, I learned a few things about tidiness from them.

And yes—I know the tails freak people out. I never understood that. Dogs have tails. Cats have tails. Lizards have tails. But for some reason, when it’s on a rat, people flinch. The truth is, rat tails are functional. They regulate body temperature and provide balance. They’re not slimy or dirty—they’re warm, clean, and even endearing once you stop projecting weird human bias onto them. Some of my favorite memories are of Sox wrapping his tail loosely around my wrist while falling asleep. It wasn’t creepy. It was connection.

I named my last pair Ernest and Nagel (baby photo in this article). They were named after the philosopher. They were thinkers in their own right—observant, empathic, gentle. They had minds of their own, and hearts too. They’d pause to study me the way I studied them. They responded to tone shifts. They cleaned each other’s faces with the care of a surgeon and the tenderness of a parent. They weren’t just “rats.” They were sentient, responsive companions—each with preferences, boundaries, and a visible spark of awareness.

And when they were gone, I unraveled again.

I sold the cage. Swore it was the last time.

But the truth is: I know I’ll do it again. Because mercy like this isn’t a choice—it’s a calling. And no matter how many times I grieve, I’ll keep choosing it. Even when it breaks me.

Some people are dog people. Others swear by cats, birds, reptiles, or fish. If I had it my way, I’d live in a house shared by a rat, a cat, a dog, a cow, an octopus, and a raven. That wouldn’t be chaos—it would be paradise. Because I don’t just love animals, I listen to them. I see the ones nobody else does. And no creature has ever taught me more about empathy, joy, and raw, unscripted honesty than a rat.

What This Article Isn’t Trying to Be

This isn’t an emotional appeal masked as science. It’s not trying to elevate rats to some moral pedestal or turn grief into content. It’s not about anthropomorphizing or sentimentalizing. It’s just the truth, written by someone who’s lived it more than a dozen times.

What This Article Is

• A reality check on the grief cycle few people talk about.
• A reflection on what happens when you love something most of the world deems unworthy.
• And a defense—whether needed or not—for those of us who keep going back and doing it all over again.

Because if spirit animals are real—and maybe they are—rats are definitely one of mine. Not because they’re small. But because they’re brilliant. Observant. Resilient. Resourceful. Industrious. They know when to trust. They survive what should kill them, and still have room left to love. They don’t chase affection—they return it. Quietly. Fiercely. Without expectation. And if you’ve ever truly loved one, you already know: the grief is brutal. But the bond is worth every broken piece of yourself that you have to rebuild. Every single time.

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Sources That Don’t Suck:

MacArthur Clark, J.A., & Sun, D. (2020). The use of rodents in biomedical research. [PubMed ID: 32249294]

Sørensen, D.B., & Ottesen, J.L. (2019). How rats respond to handling and human contact. Laboratory Animals, 53(2), 129–140.

Harshaw, C. (2008). Rats display complex social bonding and distress vocalizations following loss. Behavioral Neuroscience, 122(5), 933–947.

National Research Council. (2011). Guide for the Care and Use of Laboratory Animals.

Gouveia, K., & Hurst, J.L. (2013). Reducing mouse anxiety during handling: A route to more reliable behavior research. Nature Methods, 10(6), 524–525.