The Rat ponders the coming war

As I stretch out on my newly purchased queen-sized garbage pile (IKEA for Rodents, $55.49), I ruminate, as much as any non-bovine species really can, on this war we've got coming up somewhere around the Ides of March.

All the usual thoughts come up. The endless spin from the White House, obviously the result of all those contributions from the washing machine industry.  The enormously sweaty Donald Rumsfeld, who must, at some point, for the good of America, be forced to apply deoderant to every inch of his body. Colin Powell, who appears to have been kidnapped and replaced by psychotic cats.

Make no mistake, this rat has no sympathy for Saddam the Weasel. I have little sympathy for weasels in general, and general weasels even less. But why this particular weasel, this exceptionally boxable, containable weasel, when other predators run amok in the distant corners of the world?  Why do I get the feeling we're playing that awful carnival game, Whack-a-Mole, where you take a big foam hammer and smack the hell out of a plastic mole only to have him pop up again somewhere else?  Why would any reasonably intelligent person want to whack a mole to begin with? And what mole would be stupid enough--what was I talking about again?

Oh yes. Saddam the Weasel. So here's the rub: the felines have a new strategy on this adventure of theirs. Now, anyone opposed to dropping half of North Carolina on top of Baghdad tomorrow is a "Defender of Saddam".  Ah yes. We rodents have seen this coming. First the feline stalks you from a distance, throwing around vague references to patriotism and unity, then he gets up in your face and pauses for the kill. That final long, cold stare before lunch. 

The thing that really gets my whiskers is the way our feline friends have set this whole business up. It's all about Saddam, they say. As if he were the entire country, or perhaps as if the entire country were a clone army of little mindless mini-Saddams, all as worthy of extermination as an infestation of roaches*. As if the American Army didn't exist at all either, except as some robot force, as expendable as last year's Christmas toys.  Why shouldn't we toss Saddam out with our spring cleaning? And while we're at it, tax cuts all around.

I remember a few years ago when I let down my guard and got chased by a feral cat through the sewer system underneath Candlestick park during a football game. After about six hours of relentless pursuit, the tiring kitty cornered me underneath one of the endzones.  He smacked his lips, stared me down, and said, "all right, you dirty little rat. I've got a nice fluffy sourdough bun and a jar of Grey Poupon with your name on it. "

"No thanks," I said, steeling myself for the insertion of his left fang into my buttock.

"But little rat," he said, "it is your patriotic destiny to be my lunch. You don't want to be unpatriotic, do you?"

At that very moment a 49er linebacker fell through the endzone and into the sewer pipe, crushing the kitty.  To this day I give my allegiance to the trusty Niners.

*Roaches who wish to protest Pesky's insensitivity may write to: PO Box 554466, San Jose, California 950000

10:45:00 PM