Will Work for Peanuts

Will Work for Peanuts

“Go!”

At the familiar command, I skitter out the doorway of the carrier. I pause, sniffing in the crepuscular gloom. Low light doesn’t faze me; my singular sense of smell will be my guide.

There’s the sharp, cold smell of crushed concrete; the tanginess of metal; the sweet, slightly musty fragrance of splintered wood.

I need to block out most of what my nose is perceiving. What I’m searching for is life. Warmth, sweat, maybe blood.

“Over there – go on!” You point with your flashlight and give me a helpful nudge. 

There’s a tension in your voice that hasn’t been there in previous sessions. Excitement, yes — I’ve heard that before, particularly when you realized I was catching on to what we do. But this time, there’s real urgency. Your energy transmits itself to me, making my sparse tail hairs stand on end. 

Darting forward, I employ my superior sensory abilities. My nose twitches, my whiskers splay to measure the space around me. Rounded ears cupped forward, I strain to hear anything relevant to my task.

Ahead, dimly visible, is a mess of devastation; fractured timbers lean crazily against piles of concrete chunks and beams of twisted metal. The air is heavy with choking clouds of dust. The team has done a spectacular job setting this scene.

And they’re still working at it. Buzzing drills, banging hammers, and shrieking saws talk over the voices of the people. I’ve been trained to ignore it and focus on my job.

Squeezing into a dark crevice, I follow my nose and flatten my delicate ears. I have to go almost entirely by smell now; the beam of your light does not penetrate this insalubrious umbra.

My path constricts, blocked by some indiscernible piece of debris. I’m not sure I can squeeze through. My body, unfettered, could do it – but I am unnaturally encumbered.  

Compressing myself as much as possible, I change my angle of approach. Now the vest shouldn’t catch on whatever it is that surrounds me.

It’s my first time wearing this new, low-profile model. With the older one, there would’ve been no chance of squeezing through.

Somewhere in the pitch black beyond, there is someone waiting for help. I press on, knowing that you’ll compensate me for my work. 

I get paid peanuts for this. Literally, peanuts. And sometimes bananas. 

This session is particularly challenging, so I anticipate a special treat. You’re always kind. You’ve spent hours working with me. Teaching me, and rewarding me for learning well.

I sniffle and shuffle farther into the mountain of rubble, sneezing from the particles of gritty dust. Ahead, there’s a more open area. And the smell of human. This is what I’m looking for.

There’s a foot — or at least, a shoe — suddenly before me. Sometimes the team places such items as decoys, so I know I must investigate. I find a pant leg, and the warmth emanating from it assures me I’ve discovered my target. A live human.

I scurry up the leg, feeling the scratching of my claws against the grain of the heavy fabric. I can’t hear it; there’s too much ambient noise. 

Arriving at the belt, I pause for a second before leaping forward to the rise of the stomach.

“Uh!” grunts the man I’ve found, flinching as he spots me. “Rat!” he wheezes.

Technically, I’m not. I’m a distant cousin, a muroid rodent from the family Nesomyidae. But even you call me a rat. It’s easier. I don’t mind, as long as you keep those treats coming.

The man is flat on his back, crooking his neck awkwardly in order to observe me. If he could, I think he would swat me away, but his arms are pinned by an object that lies across his midsection. His head flops back down with a soft thunk.

Usually, I’m received with a little more enthusiasm. The crew takes turns being the target, and they expect me to find them. This one seems entirely unprepared and even displeased to see me.

What have I done wrong?

I hope I haven’t forfeited the peanuts.

Thinking of the expected payment for my services, I realize that I can’t keep sitting on this guy’s belly. There's something more I need to do. 

Twisting my head to one side, I grab the toggle on the shoulder of my vest. My long teeth yank it firmly until it beeps, three short bursts.

There’s a bit of static, and then I hear your voice.

“Good work! Forward.”

I pick my way cautiously, using my long tail to help me grip and balance. My greatest fear at this moment is that the man will somehow manage to flail his arm and knock me down. His head is cocked toward me again, chin on chest. He's staring, goggle-eyed. Was he truly not expecting me?

I creep along, straight up the placket of his shirt, using the buttons as footholds, and stop in the center of his chest. He’s transfixed. 

The microphone crackles.

“Hello,” you say, addressing him. “Are you able to speak, sir?”

He moves his mouth soundlessly, opening and closing it several times. I realize he’s staring at the blinking green LED on my vest. Does he think the voice is mine?

“Yes,” he rasps faintly. Closing his eyes, he lets his head rest on what used to be the floor. He’s putting on a good act, this one.

“We have the coordinates of your location. We’re sending rescuers, and will now call back our agent.” You transmit the special tone that means I’m to return to you. 

Before heading back, I stand, teetering on my hind legs — thankful once again for my tail. The man feels the movement and opens his eyes again. I raise a paw in salute. That’s the first trick you ever taught me. 

I’m on my way! 

The return trip is relatively easy. I follow my own scent trail, traveling as lickety-as-I-can-split, until I come to the tight spot that gave me trouble earlier.

From this direction, the angle is even more problematic. I go flat against the floor, slick back my whiskers, pin my ears tightly to my head, and push with my haunch muscles. The vest scrapes on both sides — but I’m through!

I trot along, nose to the ground, making my way back to you. And peanuts. Or… maybe this exercise is even worth a banana. 

There’s the exit! I sprint forward, squinting in the comparative brightness. 

When you reach down and scoop me up, I snuffle eagerly at your neck. You remove my slightly abraded vest and hold out a handful of peanuts.

“Stuff your cheeks, Buddy! Peanuts now — bananas later.”

🐀 

You keep your word.

I’m relaxing in my carrier, savoring the perfectly ripe, ambrosial fruit while you chat with your colleagues. My colleagues too, I guess.

A woman I’ve never seen before joins the conversation. I don’t recognize her voice, and she smells unfamiliar. She talks with her hands, gesturing and pointing. You bend down and peek through the mesh at me.

“He wants to meet you. The man you found.”

You lift my carrier and follow the woman. I give up on eating the banana as we jounce along.

The man looks better than when I last saw him. He’s sitting up, wrapped in a blanket, with a bandage on his head. He smiles at you and extends a hand from beneath the blanket.

“Pardon the left-handed shake. The other one’s sprained.”

You laugh, extending your own left hand.

“I’m used to working with lefties. Buddy here favors his left paw.’

“Oh — did he injure it?”

“No, no, I mean he prefers it. He’s a southpaw. He came through the rescue unscathed.”

“And I’m grateful. He’s a plucky fella. Now, I want to know about the rescue operation. How have you trained a rat to do what he did?”

“Rats are highly intelligent, curious, and social. Their small size, keen sense of smell, and willingness to help make them ideal first responders. 

“And this,” you announce, pulling my vest from your pocket, “is the very latest technology; a 3D printed vest with a tiny video camera, a two-way microphone, and an inertial measurement unit to track Buddy’s course.”

I don’t know what all those things mean, but he seems to understand.

“That’s what he was wearing when he found me?” He shakes his head. “Incredible!” 

He chuckles. “To be honest, I was a little bit disgusted when he climbed up my leg. And then I thought he was talking to me, which made me wonder if I was hallucinating!”

He hesitates before asking, “…Can you… take him out and introduce him properly? I didn’t give him a very good reception when he found me.”

You unzip the door. “Come on out, Buddy!”

I scuttle to the opening, blinking in the light, and jump to the man’s lap. He extends his good hand palm upward, tentatively — and this time I’m not afraid he’ll swat me. I bump his hand with my nose, asking for a scratch behind the ears.

“Friends?” He smiles.

Yes. Friends.