Chapter 20 Doctor Dolittle's Zoo by Hugh Lofting
THE PRISON RAT
“I would like very much to know,” said John Dolittle the following night when the Prison Rat was about to begin his story, “what made you take to living in prisons. I've been in prison myself. And while I always found the life very quiet and restful, I would not recommend a jail as exactly a cheerful place to make one's permanent home.”
“Well,” the Prison Rat began, “as a matter of fact, the story I am going to tell you explains how I took to prison life.”
“Good!” said the Doctor. And every one settled down to listen.
“To begin with then,” said the Prison Rat, “you must know that I began life as a studio rat. I patronized artists' studios. They're not bad places to live. For one thing, artists, as a rule, are not very particular people; and a rat more or less doesn't bother them. And secondly, they always cook their own meals and very seldom wash the dishes—after the meals; when they do, they do it before meals. Consequently there is always lots to eat. In almost any artist's studio you can be sure of finding a fish-head, or a chop-bone, or a plate with gravy stuck to the bottom, if you only hunt long enough.
“Well, then, after I had lived in several artists' studios and got sort of fond of the Bohemian life I came to reside in one where the artist was kind of peculiar. He lived all alone and didn't seem to have many friends nor to put himself out to make any. This was unusual. At my other studios they had parties—often—with lots of gaiety, laughter and good company. But this man hardly ever saw any one. I think, maybe, he had been disappointed in love. But of that I am not sure. One old philosopher used to come and see him occasionally and they'd sit and talk and argue over politics far into the night.
“I never bothered about listening to them much; but one evening I overheard a word that made me stop behind the coal-scuttle with ears cocked. With practise I had become pretty good at understanding Man Talk—especially certain words that were repeated quite often.
“'Michael'—that was the artist's name—'why don't you get a cat?' asked the philosopher.
“'How absurd! What on earth would I get a cat for?' answered the other.
“You can be sure I was glad to hear him say that.
“'Well, a dog then—or something,' the philosopher went on. 'You're too lonely here altogether. It isn't good for you.'
“'Oh, no,' said the artist with a sort of far-away look in his eyes. 'I don't need company. I can manage...alone.'
“And then followed a very interesting discussion. It seemed that the artist was more of a philosopher than was the philosopher himself.
“'Why should I get a cat?' he repeated—'or a dog, or a goldfish, or a canary—or a wife? I tell you'—he leaned over and tapped the philosopher on the knee—'if you have attachments you are not free. I am alone. If I want to go away, I can go. If I had a family or a house full of pets, I could not.'
“The philosopher finally was bound to agree with him. But just the same, I knew he was lonely, all by himself in that studio, in spite of his arguments. And the way I found it out was this: one day I slipped while I was hunting round the dishes and things for food and fell into a pail alongside the sink. The pail had no water in it; and ordinarily I could have leapt out again easily. But somehow I caught my leg as I fell and sprained it badly; and I couldn't jump an inch. And of course climbing out up the slippery sides was also quite impossible. I was trapped.
“Some time later the artist comes along, wanting the pail to carry water in. He looks into it and sees me. Of course I thought the end had come. You know how most people are: they all seem to think there is something virtuous about killing rats. And I'm pretty sure that even into his mind that was the first thought that came. Because he went off to the stove and came back with the poker. He looked determined and terrible enough. But suddenly his expression changed.
“'Oh, well,' he muttered, 'I suppose your life means something to you. Why should I kill you after all?... Get out of my pail. I want to wash.'
“And he deliberately rolled the pail over on to its side so I could escape. I limped off, thanking my lucky stars. I made kind of slow progress with my sprained leg; and he watched me thoughtfully as I scrambled for a hole under the sink.
“'Humph! Had an accident?' he murmured. 'Here, take this with you for supper.'
“And he threw me a bacon-rind off the draining-board. I took it and tried to look gratefully at him before I disappeared into the hole.
“Then for several days after that he used to watch for me. And when I appeared, instead of firing a boot at me, as most people do to rats, he used to throw crumbs of bread and meat. He was trying to make my acquaintance.
“That's how I knew that he was lonely.
“Another thing by which I was made still surer of it was that he used to talk to me a good deal—for want of some one else to chat with—also that he talked to himself a good deal. After a while I got quite tame; and as soon as I realized he didn't mind me knocking around the place quite freely, I used to sit up on a stool beside him and watch him paint. And I took my meals with him too. He gave me an upturned bucket to sit on and seemed really interested in what I liked to eat. He always called me Macchiavelli. I never understood why. Perhaps that was a friend of his.
“'Macchiavelli,' he would say, 'you're the right kind of a friend to have. You don't affect my liberty. If I leave the studio I don't have to bother about you. You'll look after yourself. Here's your good health, Macchiavelli—my friend who leaves me free.'
“And he would drink to me, with a bow, out of his shaving-mug filled with beer.
“Now there were two or three other rats who lived under the floor of that studio. And one day in Spring three of us went off together for a day's jaunt—just for a sort of exploring trip, the way folks do in springtime. As luck would have it, a terrier picked up our trail and we got separated. The dog stuck to me finally, leaving the others alone. And he chased me a long way from home before I shook him.
“I didn't get back to the studio until three days later. To my astonishment, I found that the artist was gone. The other rats had never been as tame with him as I was. They didn't trust Humans, they said, considering them a low-down, cruel and deceitful race, not in any way to be compared with rats for frankness and honesty. I asked them when and where the artist had gone. All that they could tell me was that some policemen had come and taken him away. They didn't understand Man Talk—at least, not as well as I did. But they had got the impression that it was something to do with a revolution in which the artist had taken part.
“Well, I cannot tell you how I felt. He had said that I was the right kind of a friend to have; that if he went away—it almost seemed as though he had foreseen it—it wouldn't make any difference to me. But it did. I positively wept as I went through the empty studio looking at his paintings. They were good pictures, too. And I made up my mind that I would find him if I had to seek through all the prisons in the land.
“And that was how I began my career as a prison rat.”