Whenever people find out I have a pet rat, they give me that look.
Like I just said I sleep with a possum or something.
But then I show them a picture of Bean—with his tiny paws, pointy nose, and in this case, a full cheese puff in his mouth while tucked inside my robe like a smug little king. And they go silent. Every time.
He does this thing where if I’m eating something crunchy, anything crunchy, he’s on high alert. Popcorn? He’s there. Pretzels? Practically on my lap. But cheese curls? Oh, that’s his weakness.
I wasn’t even looking when he snatched this one. One second I had it in my hand, the next—it was gone. I looked down, and there he was, wedged into the side of my robe like a goblin, holding the puff like he’d just pulled off the heist of the century.
And I swear, the way he stared back at me? Zero shame. Just, “This is mine now. You snooze, you lose.”
People always look at me with surprise when I tell them that Bean isn’t just a pet, he’s part of my family. He’s more than just a rat. He’s a little thief with a personality that’s bigger than any pet I’ve ever had. And I love him for it.
I guess that’s what makes us different. People often have these expectations about pets, especially rats. They think they’re dirty or mischievous in a bad way. But Bean? He’s the kind of mischief that brings laughter and warmth, the kind that makes you roll your eyes but also kind of appreciate the cleverness.
Like the time he managed to get into the kitchen while I was out for groceries. I came home to find him sitting on top of the fridge, looking as proud as he did with that Cheeto. There was an entire bag of flour on the floor, with a small pile of it spread around him like a white, powdery nest. The kitchen looked like a snowstorm had hit, but Bean was sitting there, covered in flour, nibbling on what I can only assume was some leftover cheese I’d left on the counter. The look on his face? Pure contentment.
I didn’t even get mad. How could I? He had pulled off the perfect crime, and I had to admire the execution. After all, every time I thought I had outsmarted him, he’d come up with something else.
But it wasn’t just about the small moments. It was about how he had become this little bundle of joy that made every day just a bit brighter. In his own quirky way, he’d helped me through some of the roughest times in my life. I’ve always been one to keep to myself, especially when things get tough, but Bean had this uncanny ability to know when I needed him.
One night, after a particularly bad day, I found myself sitting on the couch with a half-empty bottle of wine and the weight of the world on my shoulders. I’d just gotten off the phone with my mom, who had been asking me if I was okay—her way of saying, “You’ve been distant.”
The truth was, I wasn’t okay. I had recently gone through a breakup, and my life felt like it was unraveling. I’d been living in a fog, trying to push through work, trying to act like everything was fine. But inside? I was crumbling.
As I sat there, Bean came bounding up to the couch like he always did, his tiny feet clicking on the wood floor. He hopped up next to me, crawled up onto my lap, and without hesitation, snuggled right under my arm. He nestled in close, his little body warm and soft against my side. I didn’t have to say a word; he just knew.
He didn’t ask questions, he didn’t try to “fix” anything. He just was—there with me in the silence.
Sometimes, it’s the quiet presence of someone, or something, that helps the most. I didn’t need words, I didn’t need advice, I just needed to know that I wasn’t truly alone. Bean gave me that. He reminded me that even in the hardest of times, there are small, beautiful moments of connection.
But of course, being Bean, he also knew how to add a little mischief into the mix. As I sat there feeling sorry for myself, he started nibbling on the sleeve of my sweater. At first, it was just a little tug—playful, like he was trying to get my attention. I smiled despite myself, but then he started tugging harder, pulling at my sleeve like he had a point to make.
“Really?” I said, laughing softly. “You’re going to be a brat now?”
He paused, looked up at me with those bright, round eyes, and gave me a look that said, “You’ve had enough of the sad talk. Let’s play.” And just like that, I felt the cloud lift a little. Maybe it was the absurdity of it all—how I could be sitting there, heart heavy, and yet, this tiny creature with a mischievous streak was pulling me out of it with nothing more than a little tug on my sweater.
That’s the thing about Bean. He’s not just a pet; he’s a reminder. A reminder that even in the darkest times, it’s okay to laugh, to let go, and to embrace the joy that comes from unexpected places.
It didn’t stop there, though. Bean wasn’t just a distraction from the sadness. He was a little spark of joy that helped me learn something important: life doesn’t always go the way you expect, and sometimes the most valuable things come in the form of little surprises.
I think about how I adopted him in the first place, how unsure I was at the time. I wasn’t exactly the kind of person to jump into pet ownership. A rat? A small, probably messy animal with a reputation for being a little… well, less than glamorous? I wasn’t sure what to expect. But now, looking back, I can’t imagine life without him.
So when people raise an eyebrow and ask me why I have a pet rat, I smile. I smile because they’ll never understand the bond we share. They’ll never see him the way I do—the little furball who’s been there through thick and thin, who somehow knows how to cheer me up even on my worst days.
But, of course, there are still moments when Bean surprises me, like the time he managed to get into my bag of trail mix. I had left it on the kitchen counter while I was in the other room, and when I came back, Bean was sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor, looking up at me with a guilty expression and a small nut wedged into his mouth.
“I know you didn’t just…” I started, but he gave me a look like, “Yeah, I did. And I’m not sorry.”
As I stared at him, I couldn’t help but laugh. I had to admit, it was impressive how he could pull off his little crimes without getting caught. But that was the thing about Bean—he never made me angry, even when he was being a little nuisance. He had a way of doing things that made everything feel light-hearted, even the most annoying of moments.
And then came the day when I found myself with an unexpected windfall—an inheritance I didn’t know I was due. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to help me get ahead on some bills and start to feel like I had some breathing room again. And just as I was staring at my bank balance, considering all the possibilities, I realized something: I wanted to spend a little of it on Bean.
I know it sounds silly. It’s just a rat, after all. But when you’ve been through as much as I have, when life has a way of knocking you down over and over, you realize that sometimes, it’s the little things that matter most. So, I bought him a bigger cage, one with multiple levels, and some new toys that he could destroy (because let’s face it, he’s not great with delicate things).
It was a small gesture, but in that moment, it felt like the most important thing I could do. Bean had helped me, unknowingly, through some of my hardest days. And now, I was able to give him something in return. Something he truly deserved.
So, the next time someone asks me why I have a pet rat, I’ll tell them: It’s not about having a rat. It’s about the love, the joy, and the laughter that come with it.
Sometimes, the unexpected things in life—like a pet rat with a cheesy puff in his mouth—are the ones that make all the difference. And sometimes, the greatest rewards come from the most surprising places.
If this story made you smile, share it with someone who could use a little joy today.
