When I got home tonight, Fozzy came into the guest room, where I have my computer, and got onto the bed. He just sat, meat-loafed, breathing awkwardly. I’ve been to the vet a lot over the years. Rats get tumors. At least most rats. Since moving to Colorado, not so much. They don’t live long, but they don’t have the same fatty tumors going through the genes like Illinois rats had. And Gregory eats rubber and plastic. If Gregory’s not eating something requiring x-rays to confirm it has passed through his duodenum, he’s eating through the wife’s MacBook Pro charger and I’m rushing to the Apple store to buy a last minute replacement. But Fozzy’s sick. And it’s not because he ate a piece of rubber. It’s an unpleasant, helpless concern.