Content Note: This post includes photos and discussion of pet rats, grief, and death. If you’re uncomfortable with rodents, this may not be the post for you.
This is one of those posts I’ve wrestled with, back and forth, over whether I even wanted to write it. But I think I owe it to her. She gave us three beautiful years, the least I can give her is this.
If you’ve been here a while, you probably already know that I’ve kept pet rats since around 2020. If not- hi, I’m Sky, The Crippled Cryptid. Lover of spooky folklore, all things a little strange, and yes- creepy crawlies, too. Love the unloved, damn it. They deserve it. I’ve shared my life with geckos, hermit crabs, fish, and more recently, a hedgehog named Potao, Oreo the California Kingsnake, and of course, our dogs: Luna, my beautiful Australian Cattle Dog and near-flawless Service Dog in Training, and Bear, our resident grumpy old man, a German Shepherd/Basset Hound mix who takes his job of fence guardian very seriously.
Up until yesterday, we also shared our home with two pet rats. The very last rats we were ever going to have.
Mochi came to us in early summer of 2023. We hadn’t planned to adopt another rat. We were grieving the loss of KitKat- yes, like the candy bar- who had heartbreakingly passed away just a day after coming home. The pet store offered us a “replacement.” Their word, not ours. It felt clinical, cold. But we still went.
They brought out a big Sterlite bin full of female rats, the way they usually transported them from the back rooms. And right away, I knew. I knew which one the Moss Maiden- my partner, for those who know her better from the gardening posts- was going to choose.
She had big laid-back dumbo ears, black and white fur, dainty white paws, and soft whiskers that twitched like curious antennae. Her eyes were dark and shiny, not the red often used to make horror movie rats look frightening. Mochi was the opposite of frightening. She was precious.
We named her after the Japanese dessert. Nearly all of our rats have had names tied to food or drinks- often with an Asian twist- and it suited her perfectly.
Mochi was a gentle soul. She never bit, even when scared or unsure. She took treats with delicate paws, and her favorites included sweet corn, strawberry tops, and raspberries. But more than anything else, Mochi loved my partner.
Rats bond deeply, but it’s usually with just one person. With Mocha, a past rat of ours who we often called “Wibbles” due to a neurological condition- it had been BJ. With Mochi, it was her. She followed my partner like a shadow, whether that meant curling up in a hoodie while she sat at her desk, climbing up on her shoulder, or snuggling on the bed. If my partner was there, Mochi wanted to be too- she was very much a “pocket puppy.”
Even when age caught up with her- nearly three years old, which is a long, full life for a rat- Mochi still had spark left in her. When she saw my partner, she’d perk up, shuffle her little paws, and light up with recognition. That kind of love doesn’t fade quietly.
We laid her to rest by the raspberry bushes. She always did love raspberry season. Now, when we tend the garden, we’ll be saying hello to her too.
I hope she finds her way across the Rainbow Bridge to all the other tiny companions we’ve loved and lost. I hope she knows that her sister Dumpling misses her- and so do we.
Terribly.
Goodbye, sweet girl. Thank you for every soft moment.
🐾 A Note About Loss
Grief doesn’t come in sizes. Whether the soul you’re mourning was measured in pounds or ounces, their absence can still leave a cavernous space behind.
Rats live short lives, but they love with their whole hearts. They are intelligent, affectionate, deeply loyal creatures- and when you’ve shared your world with one, even for a short time, it leaves an impression that’s hard to put into words.
If you’ve loved and lost a small animal friend, please know your grief is valid. Your heart knows their worth, even if others don’t always understand.
You’re not alone.
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