My Second Writing Companion Appreciation Post

Let me introduce you to the second half of my chaotic writing companions: The Rat King (AKA Thanatos).

This is not a heroic hunter of the night, nor is he a stealthy menace capable of outwitting his prey, maybe the occasional spider or maple bug though. In fact, it’s kind of ironic that we call him The Rat King because he’s basically the furthest thing from what a cat should be.

Let me start by painting a picture of The Rat King.

Imagine a cat who can’t jump (like, at all). He’s got asthma, a bit of muscle atrophy in his spine, and a neurological disorder that looks almost like Horner’s syndrome—except it affects the opposite eye. If this cat were a character in a story, he’d be the one who gets mistaken for a houseplant because he spends so much time sitting still. A majestic king? Not exactly. More like a kind-hearted lump of fluff who is just here to exist in his own quirky way.

But every so often, something clicks in his little brain, and he transforms into a pure chaotic menace in a split second. Ears flat against his head, his eyes widen, and his whole body suddenly goes into this weird, frenzied mode. We call it “rat mode.”

He’ll start zooming through the house, running into walls, flailing like a maniac, and sometimes knocking stuff over, clawing the furniture, or kicking his feet wildly. His eyes get all big and unblinking, and his tail flicks like it’s been triggered by an invisible switch. I swear, if there was a tiny squeaky noise involved, it would complete the whole “rat king” transformation.

After his wild “rat” moment, it’s impossible to jump back into my writing with the same enthusiasm. The rat-like wrecking ball has knocked my train of thought off the tracks, and now I’m sitting here trying to remember where I was in the scene, only to be interrupted again by a tail flick or a random meow.

Every time The Rat King goes into his insane, chaotic frenzy, he steals the focus right out of my brain. The words get harder to find, the pacing slows down, and suddenly I’m spending half my time thinking about a furry little menace instead of plotting the fate of my characters.

And don’t even get me started on his obsession with escape attempts. He’s always trying to get into rooms he shouldn’t, sneaking into closets like he’s planning to live there permanently, or attempting to break into food cabinets. If there’s a door that’s even slightly ajar, he’ll exploit it, sauntering in there like he owns the place. It’s like he’s on a mission to conquer new territory, but in reality, he’s probably just looking for a snack.

But here’s the thing: I love him just the way he is. He’s proof that even if you’re not “perfect,” you still have value. You don’t have to be fast, or strong, or agile to be loved and appreciated. Sometimes, being you—just as you are—is enough.

I wouldn’t trade his chaos for the world—because, deep down, it’s his quirky little messes that remind me to slow down and embrace the unpredictability of life.

Long live The Rat King—may his chaotic reign continue to steal my focus, one unpredictable sprint at a time.