Rats are not cheap pets. Well, they are inexpensive to buy, sure. However, a basic cage setup, bare minimum, can set you back less than $100. They live roughly two years, are whip-smart and sociable, and, if you can get past their wormy little tails, they’re quite cute. But they are not cheap to keep. They get sick often, and require exotic vet care.

During my research period, I learned that rats are incredibly social animals and should only be kept in pairs. They should not be kept in tanks. They love to climb and play, and their diet should be a staple of nutritionally-balanced blocks developed in a lab and lots of good stuff off my plate. I read that breeder rats would be tame and healthier than chain pet store rats, which are often bred or kept in awful conditions. I figured someone on Craigslist counted as a breeder. This was mistake number one.

I picked up my pair of female rats from one county over, and brought them home to a small cage setup and a bag of the best lab blocks money could buy. I cooed over them, but at the same time I felt an alarming sense that I had gone in over my head.

These rats, staring out the cage at me with their weird red eyes, were two little strangers. Their behaviors were a mystery to me. I gave them three weeks before I even attempted to clean their cage, because they were so frightened of me. My growing skepticism of this Craigslist breeder grew as I texted him. How old were these rats? They were born mid-January 2014. How often had they been handled? No response. I wrote him off and began to worry about their health.

I posted frequently in the /r/RATS subreddit, got assistance from a helpful poster there named Kittie, and got to work.

First, I learned, backyard breeders are as notorious in the rat community (yes, there is a rat community) as backyard puppy mills. I had gotten two rats of questionable quality at best. I read that spaying reduced their chances of growing mammary tumors, so I poured my entire vet fund into the surgery. I learned that the cage I kept them in was too small, and its wood components would absorb urine and not last, so I poured more money into a secondhand Single Critter Nation cage, which was massive. I learned that my girls needed lots of toys to keep their crafty brains busy, so I poured my money and energy into creating hides and chews for them. They blossomed. After almost two months of pet ownership, I began to see my girls’ personalities develop.

Gouda, sweet little Gou, my Goupa Poopa, was the shy one. She was demure and sweet and hardly nibbled, let alone bit anybody. She let herself be handled and kissed and ate Cheerios like nobody’s business. She figured out the wheel first, and was the first to learn to jump onto my hand for treats. She would brux and boggle, a behavior wherein a contented rat grinds their teeth so much that their eyes literally bug in and out of their skull. It is delightfully creepy.

Roquefort, or Roquie, which turned into “Rocky,” was the wild child. The first time her first vet held her she screamed, launched herself off the exam table, and plopped onto the floor. If she sensed your nails were dirty (or had food under them), she’d trim them for you. I thought I’d never tame her, but she came around, kissing me when I woke her and bruxing as she tore up her cage.

Little by little, I felt myself come alive. When Roquie gave Gouda a bad scratch, I gave Gouda antibiotics. When upper-respiratory infections, common in rats, cropped up, I bought a cool-mist humidifier and treated them early and well, using a kitchen scale and guidance from Kittie and her rat rescue and rehab friend Shelagh to dose them correctly.

I felt needed. I felt wanted. I felt loved; I felt a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction I never got from school or work.

The more I spent, the more I felt like a good pet guardian. I went to work, came home to two excited faces, and updated anyone and everyone on their continued growth and progress. Even though I was still out of school, I felt like I was doing something worthwhile. I emailed back and forth with Kittie, and even played with the idea of doing rat rescue and rehabilitation someday.

Then Roquie, wild child Roquie, Roquie-brat, Roquie of a Thousand Kisses, got sick.