Doctor Rat

by William Kotawinkle

  It’s true—his head seems to touch the unreachable fruit. Towering over his procession, he walks slowly to the center of the plain. The ostrich and wildebeests form a circle around him. He blinks, turns his head slowly, looking out over all who have gathered. He lowers his head, then raises it again, searching the edges of the plain. A troubled look has filled his eyes.

  We know why; we know the problem. One of the animals hasn’t come.

  Great Silence blinks once more, and from his great long neck, from his dark mouth, comes a tiny voice.

  “Where is man?”

  …these animals yapping about their meeting. What a lot of crap. When the lab opens again in the morning the Learned Professor and his staff will be in here We don’t have time to attend any fucking animal meeting. The government is paying top dollar for our three-year study program—working! Electronic Ejaculate Control in the Supercharged Primate Penis and Related Rectum.

  That’s right, the Prof and his boys will be in here early, working hard, jacking off a chimpanzee. And don’t forget—we’ve also got to stick our vibrator up an orangutan’s asshole.

  Do you think this sort of thing comes easily? It requires twenty cycles of juice to get a good load of jisom out of Jimmy the chimp. Two of our most advanced assistants have to spend half their day whacking Jimmy’s carrot. It takes long hard study, but of course these are trained scientists I’m referring to. They know how to milk old Jimmy’s bone!

  As a matter of fact, Jimmy is getting a little old. So later on this month we’ll be cutting his head off, as part of a special report on brain tissue. Nothing is wasted.

  I tell you it’s wonderful to see the dedication of these young scientists as they roll our orangutan over, greasing the vibrator, slipping it up there—Members of Congress, please assure your constituents that their taxes are being well spent: a little Vaseline, a couple of batteries, fifty thousand in salaries—and we’re recycling the orangutan. He’s completely degradable.

  Of course we’ll need more basic models to replace him—but look at all the basic models who are going to this rebel meeting. On every continent the animals are marching. On every plain, in every forest, great herds are forming. They’re slowly marching toward civilization—they claim that man should take part in the meeting and that’s absurd, as you know—but what an opportunity for us, gentlemen! What an opportunity to cut open a lot of basic models all at once and really speed up the cancer program.

  I know there are some fanatic Humaniacs who claim that cancer research can be performed without animals. I’ve heard their bull shit about computers being the answer. They’re trying to phase Doctor Rat out with automation! The scoundrels! How can a computerized answer ever replace the sight of a rat whose lips are undergoing spontaneous amputation? How can a mere machine and a little bit of human tissue culture ever take the place of a living rat swelling with cancerous growths?

  The half-assed Humaniacs say no animal ever had or ever could have human cancer. I say, fuck off, there are animals going to waste right now!

  Look at them—all over the world, clumping along, going to the meeting. Millions of basic models, just waiting to be used. We mustn’t let this experimental material go to waste.

  But how can we handle all this moving wildlife? There just aren’t enough trained dissectors available to cut these bodies up and compare data. Even if we stopped gassing beagles and boiling rabbits we couldn’t free enough good men to unravel all that flesh. I mean, the proper dissection of a single rat takes three quarters of an hour. Think how long it would take to hack open that fucking giraffe!

  Of course, there are millions of high-school students all over the world who are just getting their first lessons in dissection. They’ve learned some of the tissue paths of the living frog. Yes, and they’ve taken apart the scrotal sac of a rat, they’ve gotten that sound foundation under them. Why not enlist them to help control this uprising? We’ve already taught them how to view rats, guinea pigs, and frogs. They know the truth, that these creatures are here to serve mankind’s curiosity. Let’s go, boys and girls! Follow Doctor Rat! Lift your scalpels high and immerse the skinned carcass in water! Watch the flesh rot away! Dissect the head from the spinal column, hurray! Save your old toothbrushes to scrub the flesh off the bones of your basic models! And mount the skeletons for all to see! You’re on the way to Liberty! (I believe I’ve got another hit song coming out of all this, but I don’t have time to brush up the lyrics now.) Onward, Dissecting Soldiers!

  Doctor Rat’s Youth Program. It can’t fail. Train them from the cradle. Give your child a disintegrating mouse in a bottle and watch that child’s eyes light up with interest as the flesh falls away, day by day.

  Great sulphurated potash, what an idea!

  Come along, children, and let’s bore a hole through the orbital cavity! Oh hi-diddle-diddle, the cat on the griddle, having a heatstroke at noon. The little dog died under very hot lights, and we scooped out his eyes with a spoon!

  Now, children, put on your rubber gloves and let’s boil some bones.

  This is my finest hour. It’s clear to me now—I must start Children’s Dissecting Clubs all over the globe. We’ll meet every Tuesday after school and with Mom’s help we’ll skin a rodent. By the time Dad comes home, we’ll have the water boiling gently and he can watch us dunk the body in.

  Won’t that be fun, boys and girls! You’ll all receive a rat’s skull-and-crossbones insignia for your jacket. And a skull pin for your beanie.

  All the children marching, round and round the room. And every single Tuesday, we dissect someone’s womb.

  I’ve got to implement this program at once: letters to the various superintendents of schools, and to the Congress. I’ll have to dip into my obscure statistics file and frame the proper ambiguous request for funds. A simple enough matter: ecology, sociology, relationships, comparison, in light of recent studies, formation, orientation, blah, blah, blah. I’ve done it many times before.

  But time, Rat, time is the problem. The animals are already marching.

  My great humanistic dream must be temporarily postponed. But we devoted researchers know how to wait. Enlisting the children in this program is a definite direction-finding breakthrough. I’m surprised my learned colleagues haven’t enlarged upon it before. True, they’ve produced the proper stimulus-response formation in the minds of high-school students, but what fertile ground we have in grammar-school kids! They’re naturally curious; they know all about pulling the wings off a fly. We simply upgrade their natural tendency and show them how to cut the nuts off a dog.

  This is the sort of program that can catapult me into a high government post. I’ve got to play my cards right. But I know the kids will respond to dissection. Oh, we can have such fun together. We’ll get a chimpanzee and we’ll cut off his head. Good, Then we’ll stuff the head. And then we’ll bring another chimpanzee into the classroom and show him the stuffed head. It will scare the shit out of him. Why? I am indebted to Professor Austin for his explanation of this phenomenon, which he demonstrated very often to his own students. The chimp is scared shitless of the stuffed head because it has only a few of the ordinary characteristics of a chimpanzee—i.e., eyes, nose, mouth, and ears.

  Live chimp looks at stuffed head. Shits pants. Now, students, please observe what Professor Austin has so skillfully pointed out: The scared chimp is suffering from neophobia. He’s never before seen a head just like his own resting on top of a desk. It’s a new experience—and so he runs like hell around the classroom, screaming.

  He isn’t screaming because he thinks they’ll cut off his head next. No, no, no, students, gracious no. Nothing so morbid as that. It’s just a little case of neophobia.

  It’s important for young students to make such subtle distinctions, and I can help them to do so, in a fun way. (A grammar-school program must have fun instruction like this headless chimpy game.)

  I’ll be leading the entire field with this thing; the doors of the White House
are going to open to Doctor Rat. A scientist occasionally spies his destiny and I see mine. It’s with the children. This is a profound moment in history, and I, who am trained in perceiving the delicate releasing stimuli, am getting a terrific rush out of this one. Doctor Rat will be dining with the President of the United States!

  I’ll have grants coming out of my ears.

  In the meantime, while this valuable scientific idea is incubating in my cerebral hemispheres, I’ve got to set up a counterrevolutionary receiving set and find out what man is doing to squash this revolution. Over here, beyond the pickled fetuses is a small abandoned activity drum which will do fine. The smaller sets give you sharper pictures, anyway.

  All right, I’m climbing through the door and putting my paws on the wire floor. Now run, Doctor, run!

  Get this goddamn thing spinning fast enough… I’m in as good shape as ever…my experimental psychosis has lent a certain vigor to all my motor systems. I can show a clean heel when I have to, gentlemen. The Albino Flash! Wow, this wheel is really singing…should facilitate some good reception…now to jump off and watch the picture coming in…

  Okay, I’ve got a perfect seat, and here comes the highly classified counterrevolutionary signal. Good, excellent, a special meeting of the military advisors. This is the kind of show I love! Nothing namby-pamby in it. Straight fast decision-making on the highest level. These are your best men in an emergency. You don’t want any ecological conservatives around at times like this. They’re all right in their place, mind you, beautifying the roadsides, but in the short-term view, when you need action in a hurry for results now, those boys aren’t the ones to call.

  And I’m happy to see the African leaders realize this.

  “Mr. President, as you know, the Research Programme for Gathering a Selective Cross-section of the Species has been formed rather quickly. But the animals have already collected in such vast numbers that we couldn’t afford to hesitate.”

  “I’m aware of the need for immediate action, Mr. Secretary.”

  “Yes sir. We have some very good men in the Programme and they’ve flown over the areas where the animals are gathered. The numbers have been assessed and the conclusion is that the proposed cross-section can be taken without significant damage to any of the species.”

  “You’ve conferred with the Minister of Natural Resources?”

  “The Minister is of the opinion that a considerable harvesting of the elephant and hippo groups is essential. His teams have observed that these particular groups have become too successful and are in need of cropping-out. In the long run, the herds will benefit by such selective harvesting. We are, in fact, hoping to achieve a lasting dynamic balance of the animal population. This massing of the animals makes the implementation of that part of the Programme much easier. A better ecology, sir, is going to be the end result.”

  “I’m happy to hear that, Mr. Secretary. In your memorandum you mentioned certain economic benefits…”

  “The Research Programme will pay for itself, sir, many times over.”

  “Exactly how will that work, Mr. Secretary?”

  “Sir, as soon as we realized that the herds were gathering in such great numbers we invited tenders from the larger American and European pet food companies. Those tenders have now been received.”

  “May I see them, Mr. Secretary?”

  “Yes sir, here they are. As you can see—”

  “The figures are substantial.”

  “Very substantial, Mr. President.”

  “And how is the Selective Cross-section going to be gathered?”

  “I’ve already conferred with Air Marshal Mobogo. He’s very enthusiastic about a Selective Harvest of this size as it will give his air force a lifelike military maneuver in which to test out our new Phantom jets.”

  “Have you spoken to Shudite?”

  “General Shudite is eager to test his own new machinery under battlefield conditions. The gathered elephants, for example, are quite similar in size to a tank battalion. The general is certain that valuable field maneuvers will result.”

  We sit and groom each other, picking out fleas and watching the many animals as they enter the plain. The noise is tremendous, and yet a gentle calm seems to pervade the ranks. We gorillas who have always lived in solitude upon the jungle heights can only sit in wonder here, in the midst of so much activity.

  The leopard blinks at me sleepily and licks his paws. No one moves to attack us. The great black buffalo is chewing the grass. A little rhinoceros has come in amongst the elephants, playfully nudging them with her horn. And the leopard cubs are playing with the hyenas!

  I feel I should stand up and pound my chest. But there is no need to do so. The air is filled with contentment and a wonderful expectation. I scratch my head.

  The exercise wheel is slowing down, the picture is getting weaker. I’ve got to get back on the wheel again and generate some more intuitive kilopower.

  Enemy patrol coming this way! Quick, Rat, go into disguise…

  Taking my tail in my mouth, I start to chase it, round and round, exhibiting all the activity of a rat caught in a compulsive syndrome. There are many such rats in the lab, all of whom were driven into this tail-chasing psychosis by the Learned Professor. I look just like one of them, going faster and faster.

  The enemy patrol is slowing down, coming closer.

  “Hello, in there! Can we help you?”

  I spin madly on, eyes closed, whirling round and round.

  “He’s too far gone…a hopeless case…”

  A masterful subterfuge. The rebels are marching away. And this spinning round and round is producing a very strong intuitive field. Yes, here comes a strong signal now, straight from Washington. Hurrah, boys! Let’s deal with these revolutionaries in the one sure way of effecting a just and lasting peace!

  “The Wildlife Department says they have no way of tranquilizing so many animals. By the time they get all the animals knocked out here, at Point B, those they knocked out earlier at Point A will be waking up, before a single animal’s been moved. And there are such great numbers of the smaller animals that the rangers can’t even make a dent.”

  “Can’t they make a hell of a lot of noise or something and scare them all back into the woods? High-frequency whistles, maybe, to drive the animals away?”

  “Every state is claiming that herds of deer are involved, as well as large groups of other big animals, like bears. If you tried to move them that way, you’d have them spilling out all over the highways. There’d be a traffic pile-up like nobody’s seen before. It’d cripple the nation.”

  “Some environmental honcho is claiming it’s been caused by DDT in the food chain.”

  “…behaviorists talking about the psychosis of mass exodus…”

  “Gentlemen, the President is not interested at the moment in why it’s happened. He wants an action memo with his options for bringing about a solution, fast.”

  “We can’t possibly coordinate the wildlife agencies of every little town in the country. They’re panicked anyway. I’ve talked to enough idiots today to know we’ve got no chance of solving this on the local level.”

  “Have we talked to the Pentagon yet? The army’s probably got some kind of gas that will tranquilize whole herds…”

  The enemy patrols have all passed by, Rat. Now is your great moment. Quietly as a tiny Eurasian Harvest Mouse I creep along, intent on reaping a full harvest of revolutionary heads. (Dissection of trachea and main vessels. I might also deliver a few kidneys. And pass a sharp needle through the thyroid gland. And transplant their adrenal glands to their groin. Ha ha!)

  But first I must fashion a gas mask, if I’m going to make a successful raid on the Chemical Closet. Here, among the cleaning tools, I nibble away a piece of sponge large enough to cover my whole head. Quickly, Rat, hollow it out, make eye holes and ear holes. Nose and mouth must remain covered. It’s a crude device, but I haven’t time to write a requisition in triplicate for a prope
r gas mask.

  Now, down this last aisle, quickly. Scurry, scurry, duck.

  Hidden in the shadow of the table leg, I look all around, right and left. Go, Doctor, go!

  “No, you don’t!”

  A Growth Hormone goon leaps in front of me. The bastard’s bigger than a Gambian Pouched Rat. But I arch my back and begin tooth-chattering (cf. “Rat Rage,” Broome and Poole, Psy. Post, 1967).

  His back raises up, his hair is bristling. He snaps at me, misses, and I sink my teeth into his tail. “Back, you mangy overgrown mouse! Cf. Territorial Defense, Sloan and Wilson, 1960.”

  He bites again, but I charge him head down and drive into his gut, bowling him over. Doctor Rat is light, fast, and blessed with hysterical energy, my friend. You don’t take him without a fight!

  A scalpel lying here on the floor. I pick it up quickly and wave it wildly, chasing off the goon.

  But other swordsmen are gathering, armed with picks, chisels, drill bits. “Disperse at once, you rabble!”

  I have no fear of them, I, a Learned Mad Doctor with high scores in Competitive Behavior. “Come on, fellow rats. I shall be happy to initiate you into the mysteries of my slogan. Death…is freedom!”

  Fighting them off, clanging here, beating there, I move backward up the clothes tree, fighting on the edge of this carved-claw foot. Very well, if I must die here I shall, but I’ll take some of these bastards with me…beat…parry…thrust…

  Sweet Suffering Pack Rats! (genus Neotoma) Advancing upon me are the ring-collared females. Oh, they’re a hideously vicious bunch. By fastening a ring to their necks we were able to keep them from washing themselves, thus producing an experimental psychosis. When they had their babies, they refused to wash them and, instead, ate them.

  And now they’re trying to eat me! Son of a titmouse!

  “Back…back, you bitches!”

  Too many of them. But I refuse to die such an ignominious death as being eaten alive by these lunatics. I turn, leaping up the clothes tree, clambering toward the white uniform hanging there.