Rat pup rehoming - Wild / Fancy Mix

Man, I swear—living in Chicago, you expect a little chaos. Sirens, potholes, neighbors blasting music at 2 a.m.—fine. But what I didn’t expect was some brown-furred alley Casanova busting through my upstairs window sill like he was starring in Fast & Furious: Vermin Drift.

This rat didn’t just break in, oh no—he went full Mission Impossible. Chewed through my bedroom window, gnawed a hole under my door, and threw himself a little secret rave in the walls with my girls. My six girls. Ping, Pong, Medina, Lilith, Hecate, and Grandma. He must’ve caught the scent of their bedding like some kind of rodent pheromone cologne and thought, “Yep, bachelor party time.”

Now, I usually let my girls free roam in my bedroom. They’re civilized ladies, you know? Chill, snack on cashews, climb the dresser. But toss a hoodlum in the mix? Suddenly I’m running a speakeasy for rats in the ducts.

I leave town for a few days, come back, and four of my girls are caught and caged like they’re doing hard time. The other two? Lilith and Hecate? Looking like they swallowed cantaloupes. My first thought wasn’t “oh, they missed me.” No. It was, “damn, this hood rat really did a hit-and-run.”

September 6th, 2025—boom. Hecate drops eleven like she’s running an assembly line. Two days later Lilith pops three. This rat didn’t just ruin my week, he turned me into a rodent daycare operator overnight.

And here’s the kicker: I can’t keep all the boys. I don’t even know how many boys yet. But I know one thing: their deadbeat dad might’ve also murdered Ping and Pong. No bodies. No closure. Just poof. Tell me that’s not the most Chicago crime saga ever: break in, knock up, possibly whack two witnesses, and bounce back into the sewers.

But here’s where it gets funny: these kids are gonna be beasts. Brown rats—aka “Norwegians,” aka “sewer rats”—are stronger, smarter, more agile than your average fancy rat. Basically the LeBron James of rodents. So yeah, free to good homes starting October 18th, 2025. Bring your friends, your cousins, your weird coworker who always wanted a pet but couldn’t commit to a dog. I only let them go in pairs (same sex), because otherwise, you know how that cycle goes.

They’ll all look similar—sleek, brown, dark coats. None of that fancy calico patchwork pet shop look. I even thought about getting a tattoo gun and giving each a little belly dot like they’re tiny gang members. But eh, probably not.

You won’t find rats like these in a pet store. These are street-certified, back-alley-bred, hood-rat hybrids. Battle-tested. Survivors. The real deal.

So yeah—shoutout to Chicago’s very own Romeo Sewerjuliet, wherever you are. Thanks for the child support bill, buddy.

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