Parked my car along St Mary, a side street perpendicular to Nepa-Q Mart where I get my weekly supply of fruits. As I walked towards the market a rat slightly smaller than a kitten ambled past. The fur on its rump and half its tail was gone, eaten up by some skin disease that looked like vitiligo or psiorasis or eczema or leprosy. I didn’t have enough time to take a skin sample for diagnosis so I won’t be able to tell you what it is.
At any rate, I always thought rats were hardy little creatures that could live well anywhere, that’s why I was amazed to see one suffering from a skin disease.
“Jesus,” I told myself, “I have to talk to that rat about moving to a new neighborhood.” But the overwhelming stench of dried piss on that part of the street fronting Two Bubble Laundry and a siomai stall made me realize that it would be futile trying to talk the rat into moving out, he probably thinks he already died and gone to heaven.