According to a Reuters story published last month, demand for pet rats has soared since the release of Ratatouille, the animated film from Pixar that was released Tuesday on DVD.

It seems that the culinary exploits of Remy, Ratatouille‘s rodent hero, has convinced children across the world that the disease-infested scavengers best known for spreading plagues would be ideal creatures with which to cuddle. Nothing says bedtime like bubonic.

If today’s children are indeed that gullible, here are a few other potential pet ideas that can be gleaned from films.

Why not try your hand at potty-training a mogwai. These mischievous little critters can be purchased dirt cheap at any Chinatown curio shop. Just make sure you follow the three rules of mogwai ownership:

1. Keep it away from bright lights.
2. Don’t let it get wet.
3. Never feed it after midnight.

Ignoring these rules, as seen in the 1984 film Gremlins, can be disastrous. Breaking the rules will transform the cute, furry critters into scaly monsters that eat everything in their path; including Zach Galligan’s career.

For potential pet owners with a busy schedule and no backyard, it’s important you find a companion who can spend long hours caged in a crate.

Stephen King and George Romero may have the perfect idea for you. In the 1982 film Creepshow, Hal Holbrook plays professor Henry Northrup, a henpecked professor who discovers a mysterious crate with an even more mysterious occupant.

Large, hairy and full of teeth, Holbrook’s new friend has a tremendous appetite and is fond of dark stairwells. Feeding it can be a real headache. Luckily, Holbrook has a plan to enlist help from his wife (Adrienne Barbeau) … as the main course.

When a pet grows too big to maintain, some owners are forced to give it up. While most responsible owners turn to an animal shelter, one unlucky reptile was flushed down the toilet in the 1980 film Alligator.

Banished to the sewers, Ramon the alligator grows to an enormous size under the streets of Chicago. The film was directed by Lewis Teague, the man who was responsible for filming another story of pet gone bad, Cujo.

Unlike Alligator, though, Cujo the rabid St. Bernard never returned in a sequel sub-titled The Mutation. What a shame, too. The world could use more mutant-dog movies.

Speaking of mutant-dog movies, Ally Sheedy and Lance Henrkison star in Man’s Best Friend, a heartwarming story of an animal-rights activist and her four-legged friend, a genetically enhanced canine killing machine.

The dog has had the traits of other animals spliced into its DNA, giving it the ability to spew acidic urine, change its appearance to blend with its environment and swallow a cat whole.

What child wouldn’t want a pet like that?

Regrettably, not all parents are cool enough to buy a genetically engineered dog. Some squares may feel a little uneasy about entrusting their kids with an animal that can melt fire hydrants with its urine.

Maybe they would be a bit more comfortable with a nice bunny? Don’t be too quick to trust Peter Cottontail though. Besides having a penchant for trying to steal children’s cereal or dressing in drag, rabbits have been known to grow to enormous size and eat people.

In William F. Claxton’s Night of the Lepus, giant mutant rabbits terrorize a small desert town.

After experimenting with rabbit hormones, a rancher accidentally unleashes a swarm of man-eating bunnies.

The 1972 film — with Janet Leigh, Rory Calhoun and DeForest Kelley — features a great climatic ending in which the National Guard battles the rapidly reproducing terrors.

Whether through old age, being hit by a car or being shot down by the military, everybody’s pet eventually finds itself playing with that giant ball of yarn in the sky.

Sometimes the end isn’t the end. If you are lucky enough to live next to someone such as the folksy, yarn-spinning neighbor played by Pet Sematary star Fred Gwynne, you should ask about any old Indian burial grounds in the surrounding area.

After revealing the location of the burial ground and ignoring your neighbor’s hypocritical pleas to not mess with nature, bury your deceased pet in the ground and mosey on back to your home.

Your dead friend will eventually find its way home, complete with a new murderous intent.

By that time, you’ll realize the money you saved on pet food and, sometimes, a dead pet is better. Try flushing your resurrected pet down the toilet.

A boy and his dog.

Because of Foxy’s boundless reserves of energy and her ravenous appetite, I constantly needed to walk her.

During our walks, Foxy would often set the pace – pulling me behind her as she raced from scent to scent. If we crossed the path of a jogger, I would have to brace myself unless I wanted my arm tugged out of socket.

A friendly dog perpetually starved for attention, Foxy wanted to play with everybody we passed. The fact that Foxy seemed so friendly with everybody she met did not inspire confidence in her ability to protect my apartment (and me) from any intruders. If somebody was to break into my home while I was gone, I feared my dog would let them take whatever they wanted if only they scratched behind her ears.

While working for the newspaper, I became nocturnal. Coming home from work after midnight, I would stay up until four in the morning. One night in particular, I was playing video games at 3 a.m. when I heard a knock at my door. Assuming my TV was too loud and an angry neighbor had come to complain, I looked for a pair of shorts to put on so that I could open the door.

As I shuffled about in search of pants, the knocks at my door grew in their frequency. Soon, the knocks had turned into pounding and, when I had still not opened the door, the pounding at the door became pounding at my window. Unsure of exactly what was going on, I opened the door with caution. Standing outside were two ratty women. Their faces plastered with too much makeup and their skanky clothes reeking of cigarettes, the woman looked me up and down.

“We’re here to see your nephew,” one of the women said.

“I don’t have any nephews here,” I replied and began to close the door.

Before I could shut the door all the way, though, one of the women shoved her hand in the way and, with a surprising strength, pulled the door back open.

“Uh uh,” she said. “We were here last week with your nephew. Where is he?”

“You’ve got the wrong apartment,” I said, now kind of tense about what was going on. The woman holding the door was exerting real strength in trying to pull it open even wider.

I started to panic as I played tug-a-war with the woman over my door. Foxy must have sensed my unease because out of nowhere she appeared between my legs, her hair standing straight up. Letting loose a “Call of the Wild”-esque growl, she quickly attracted the attention of the two women. Their eyes drawn to the visibly upset dog standing in the doorway, the two jumped back just enough for me to gain the upper hand in our match of strength. I closed the door and locked it.

While I went to the nearest window and peered out, Foxy continued to growl at the woman. The two streetwalkers stayed on my porch for ten more minutes, smoking a succession of cigarettes. Foxy continued to growl, never backing down. Eventually the woman disappeared into the alleyway behind my apartment, leaving me to attempt sleep, now possessing a newly acquired fear of prostitutes.

The next day I went to McDonalds and bought my dog the biggest hamburger I could buy for a dollar. While she may not have associated the reward with her actions the previous night, I felt the need to shower my dog with a gift — not for saving my life (I felt relatively confident that, if push came to shove, I could have taken the two prostitutes in a fight) but to thank Foxy from saving me the embarrassment of having to contact the police and let them know I was the victim of a home invasion by two hookers.

I miss my dog.

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I miss my dog.

When signing my apartment lease last year, I made the decision to leave my dog Foxy with my parents. My choice was the result of several factors — the most pressing being that my dog was over the apartment complex’s weight limit and a mix of two breeds, Chow and German Sheppard, that were specifically outlawed by the complex.

Even if my dog had been OK’d by the apartment complex or I had chosen to fight the rules, I would have probably made the same decision — my dog will be happier living with my parents in a house with a big back yard and plenty of space to run. While my brain tells me that Foxy is happier where she is and that I can (and do) go to visit her as often as I want, I still miss my dog.

I didn’t meet Foxy until she was several months old. My parents bought her while I was living in College Station, urged on by my sister during the last summer she lived at my parents’ house. When I finally was introduced to my parent’s new dog, Foxy had outgrown her awkward puppy phase and was a full-fledged galloping horse of a dog — all long legs that seemed to be perpetually running. Full of youthful energy, she would speed around the living room, jumping into anybody and everybody’s lap — despite the fact that she was the size of most full-grown dogs.

For the first few years of her life, I kept my distance from Foxy. This was the first dog my parents had bought since I left home. A replacement if there ever was one, Foxy was often the main topic of conversations with my parents; stories told in the same tone of voice one would reserve for bragging about their kids.

I heard about how smart the dog was or what cute thing she had done that week. I would come home and find that the dog had clamed my favorite spot on the couch for herself. I truly felt that the dog was slowly edging me out of my parents’ lives.

After I graduated from college and went to live in my first roommateless apartment, my parents asked me if I would like to adopt Foxy. My parents thought I would appreciate the company – even if it walked on four legs and liked to drink out of the toilet bowl.

There was also the fact that my parents were getting older. No longer able to keep up with Foxy’s constant craving for attention or love for walks, my parents were all too happy to hand her off. So, with a passing of the leash, Foxy ceased to be my parent’s dog and became mine.

It took some adjustment during the first months of having a dog. I was no longer able to sleep in late unless I wanted to wake up to a wet spot on the carpet. Since my apartment was too small for a kitchen table, I often used to eat off of my coffee table while sitting on the floor. Foxy soon became aware of the fact that this proved to be the perfect height for run-by food theft. If I took my eyes off my dinner at any point, I could be assured that I would turn back to find it in my dog’s mouth.

Not having the heart to lock her in her kennel at night, I would let her roam free while I slept – figuring she would find a nice spot on the couch to sleep. Foxy had other ideas. Every night she would jump onto my bed — leaving little room for me on the twin sized mattress. I would push her to the foot of the bed but during the night she would slowly make her way up until she was sleeping on top of my head.

Foxy could be as spoiled as she wanted to though. She earned it the night she saved my life.
To be continued…

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The truth has never been so scary… or cute!

I would like to ask you, the reader, to take a break from reading my blog to take a look around you. Are there any animals in your immediate surrounding? Chances are good that there are.

It could be nothing larger then an ant or a spider crawling across the floor of your office. If you are reading this outside, perhaps a squirrel is hiding a nut in a nearby tree. If at home, it could be your faithful dog Rover lying at your feet, legs twitching as he dreams of chasing rabbits. Maybe it’s just the three-toed sloth that’s watching you though binoculars from the rooftop across the street.

That’s right, the sloth is there. Don’t look now, you’ll tip him off that you know. Know what, you may be asking. The truth is this: animals know martial arts.

This summer’s comedy G-Force may seem like a rollicking good time. A movie featuring a team of wisecracking guinea pigs surely is full of heart, warmth and more life lessons then one can rightfully bear — but that’s exactly what they want you to think. In truth, the movie is a cautionary tale put forth to warn humanity of the danger that lurks behind every litter box.

If given a chance, animals – every single one of them – would not only bite the hand that feed it, they would give it a roundhouse kick to the head.

That ant crawling around your feet — it’s doing reconnaissance.

The squirrel hiding the nut — it’s been storing projectile weapons in place for the upcoming revolution.

And the dog seemingly dreaming of catching rabbits? Try dreaming of performing Capoeira — the Brazilian form of dance/fighting.

Perhaps you’ll regret all those years of training Rover to dance in hopes of entering him on David Letterman’s Stupid Pet Tricks when your dog is a swirling cloud of kicks and two-steps.

G-Force is not the first film to attempt to warn humans of the danger of animal warriors. Did you really think Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles was just the result of two men getting drunk and eating a lot of pizza? No, it was there to inform the rest of us that animals were secretly training to become experts in both karate and Renaissance painters. Same with Kung-Fu Panda. I’ll bet you thought Hong Kong Phooey was just a bad cartoon from the ‘70s instead of a desperate warning that there exists canines that are both number one super guys and quicker then the human eye.

So this summer, as you watch the animated adventures of a bunch of warrior rodents, be afraid. Be very afraid.

(Psst…  To any animals that may be reading out there, I’m more then willing to betray the rest of humanity in exchange for my own life.)

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Last night I dreamed there was a bear in my bed.

As I hid underneath the covers, my body cocooned in a mess of sheets, the giant slumbering grizzly slept at my feet.

I could feel its coarse hair tickle the tips of my toes; its hot breath blew across the hairs of my leg— the smell drifting up to my nose.

My bed is not a large bed. It’s practically a cot. I could hear the creaking of the bed-frame every time the animal shifted its body – which it did a lot.

I unwedged my feet from underneath the bear and gently tapped its head. Five minutes later, with a not so gentle kick, I tried to shove the grizzly from my bed.

My attempt at knocking the bear to the floor was a miss; the animal, now awakened, gave my toes a gentle kiss.

The bear, believing I was in the mood to play, climbed up to the front of the bed, where my head lay.

I opened one eye and saw the bear’s giant head looming over my face, in her mouth an unearthed squeak toy was firmly in place.

“Woof,” the bear spoke, dropping the toy onto my head with a wet plunk. Drool covered the plastic plaything, coating my face with a sloppy spunk.

“No,” I said, giving the bear a lazy push with my outstretched hand. “I’m trying to sleep. What don’t you understand?”

The bear dropped onto its belly next to my face. Gently, it picked up its toy and put it back in place.

When I did not respond, the bear clamped down with its gigantic teeth, the toy letting out a shrill cry, shrieking and squeaking its peace.

As the sound echoed throughout the room, I pulled the pillow over my head, hoping the bear would get the message soon.

I tried to ignore the bear, pay her no heed, but on and on the noise went, leaving me hopelessly peeved.

When I decided that I could no longer stand the sound of the bear at play, I gave in. Facing the bear, I stared deep into its bear eyes and scratched the soft spot under its bear chin.

“Woof,” the bear replied, dropping its toy and closing its eyes. She was content with the attention she was now supplied.

With a lazy plop, the bear fell on its side, landing on top of me. As I adjusted myself under my new bear blanket, I could barely breathe.

I could feel the soft fur of my best friend’s hair. Last night I slept underneath my dog, dreaming of a bear.

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For a good part of my life, I’ve been drawn to advice columns.

Being somebody who is constantly plagued with doubt, reading “Dear Abby” or “Dear Prudence” has been a wonderful way to learn what is socially acceptable and what is the type of weird behavior that gets you talked about behind your back.

Unfortunately, the advice columns run in the newspaper rarely answer the type of burning questions that keep me up at night. That’s where my friends come in. I’ve been blessed with friends and family that are wonderful fountains of information and advice. Some of the advice has even been solicited.

My sister Amy, for example, has been there my entire life to guide me through any problem I may be experiencing. With her scathing wit, freakishly large reservoir of trivial knowledge and her ability to empathize with most anybody, she has been a guiding resource in my life.

It’s no surprise, then, that I would want to read an advice column written by her. Unfortunately, Amy’s rather extensive criminal background as a horse rustler in the state of Montana prevents her from getting a job as an advice columnist at any respectable newspaper. That didn’t stop me from rustling up some of my own questions to solicit her responses for:

Dear Amy,

I am starting to get the impression that my cat does not respect me.

Every day I feed him his favorite food (lasagna), fill him in on all the humorous anecdotes that occur during my dates with his veterinarian and, most importantly, provide him with constant companionship.

Despite all of this, it seems the only things my cat has to offer me are pithy putdowns and a constant sarcastic smirk across his smug little furry face.

I’m getting sick and tired of being my pet’s personal jester. I’m a human being! I have a larger brain then that fleabag! I own him! Why, then, does he seem to think he’s so much better then me? Sure I have a tendency to get into wacky and zany misadventures that often end with me in some various form of pain. Is that any excuse, though, to loose my cat’s respect?

How can I reassert my dominance over my pet and show him that I am the alpha male of this relationship? I swear I’m one sarcastic eye roll from taking him to the vet for the final time.

— Unappreciated in Muncie

Dear Unappreciated in Muncie,

I think that you are investing way too much time on the wrong type of pussy. Spend more time with his veterinarian, and then he’ll have to work for your affection. You are the alpha, get his lazy ass up and tell him that he needs to play fetch with the dog. Let him cause misery on someone who will be willing to take the abuse and come back for more; and I don’t mean you. You need to show him that you are the alpha. If he questions it, compare and see who has the bigger balls. If you lose that contest, than it’s time for your cat to take a trip to the vet. There is a surgical procedure that will secure your ability to win the challenge from now on.

Good luck, and grow a pair!

Amy

Dear Amy,

I’m starting to get the impression that my owner is suffering from severe depression.

I’m just a cat who loves lasagna but even I can spot the signs of severe clinical melancholy. Last week, I walked in on him with a gun in his mouth mumbling something about what a sad, lonely parody of a life he led. He then proceeded to stare listlessly at a picture of the farmhouse he grew up in as a child and mutter soft apologies to his brother, Doc Boy.

Even though I’m a cat who is physically incapable of conversing with humans, he insists on having conversations with me. I mean, I’m a cat! I can only respond with a purr and, quite frankly, it’s hard to muster a purr when your owner is acting like a complete spaz.

It’s not like he can chat with his girlfriend. Every woman he asks out has turned down the poor guy down — often in highly humorous and cartoonishly comic ways.

I’m really worried about the guy and when I get worried I have a tendency to overeat — even resorting to stealing the hamburger off of my owner’s plate; which, of course, makes him sad. It’s a vicious cycle and I need your help to break it.

How can I cheer my owner up — I’ve tried giving him sympathetic eye rolls but it doesn’t seem to be working.

— Worried in Muncie

Dear Worried in Muncie,

Are you really worried? Or are you some sick and twisted f**k who likes to toy with people? So all you can do is purr, I call “Bullshit!” How are you writing this letter? You may have everyone else convinced that you are a just the poor concerned pet of a depressed man, but I see through your cover. By the way, you are not the only purring companion available to your owner. Have you ever realized that you could be replaced? I hope for your benefit that there aren’t any other pets in the house. If there are, you should make sure that they are on your side. I suggest you seek some professional medical attention and start learning how to do some tricks. The next time he tries talking to you, you better do a really cool backflip or meow out, “I love you.” Otherwise you might be facing a life on the street where a big hairy Persian is tricking you out for a cheap price. Remember, you have a nice home and don’t want to lose it to any cuter kitten that happens to come along.

Good luck,

Amy

Dear Amy,

Me Odie. Me like ball. You throw ball? You throw ball, me like you. Lick.

— Me in Muncie

Dear Odie,

I like you because you are nice and simple. You are straight forward and know how to convey what you want. I suggest you bring a ball to anyone you see and wait for them to throw it. The fatter the person, the better — think of yourself as their personal trainer. You are getting to play ball and they are getting a little execise too. I know that I probably lost your attention right after you heard your name so I will end with this:

Who’s a good boy? You are! Go get the ball. Good boy!

Amy

Amy is a lifelong proud resident of the state of Texas. When not picking on her little brother, she enjoys movies, live music concerts and beating everybody on Guitar Hero. She is currently working on her first comic strip based on the adventures of her chihuahua, Chula.

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