The Political Issue
Vol. 4 Issue 2

Rug-Rat
by Bertram Redgrave

   In the late afternoon, heavy beams of golden sunlight would pierce the library windows of the old house. He loved that time of day. To sit on the carpet while the hall clock ticked and the tiny specks of dust danced in the sunbeams like fireflies against the dark background of the mahogany paneling. His name was Rug-rat.
   And he hated the name.
   A zillion years ago, when he had gotten a rash on his stomach and his mother said he had a rug-rash caused by the polyester rug in the hall, his brother had christened him "Rug-rat" and the name had stuck. He hated his brother. Mr. Know-it-all, the brother who was born maybe a killion years before him.
   Rug-rat spent his time in the library. There the rug was Persian wool and he did not get the rash anymore. The room was quiet and warm in the late afternoon and the walls of books looked down but did not criticize his laziness.
   He spent quadrupulous minutes in the library watching the books. He would rather be with the books than play with his brother and the gang. His brother stayed out until all hours, causing trouble his mother said, but since his Dad had died she could, "Do nothing with him."
   He was hungry. His mother usually bought him a snack in the late afternoon. He liked cheese and peanuts and things like that. But his mother said cheese had cholesterol and would clog his arteries and peanuts made him fat.
.  . . in the afternoon stillness, he dozed. . . and around him the golden dots of dust soared in silence.
  When he woke he saw his mother had left some cheese for his lunch. He loved his mother. He rushed quickly to the treat.
   Rug-rat lay in the corner of the library. The metal bar that had broken his neck still pinned him to it's wooden base. His brother stopped in passing, his whiskers twitched for a moment at the smell of death, and then he raced on. The Grandfather clock ticked solemnly, mechanically, measuring with great accuracy the minutes and the hours of the golden afternoon until the ancient lady, who lived in the house, opened the trap and dropped the "very fat" mouse into the trash.