After a fun afternoon ob painting eggs, we stopped for mom to get a picture (she does that alot).
Happy Rat Day!! Would you like a piece ob cheese??
Fank you for all the birffday wishes! Please come join us and hab a pamcake! Celebrashuns are more fun wiff eberyone!
This time… it’s Fish and Barry’s turn to turn 3.
Fish arrived ready to celebrate immediately—eyes on the whipped cream, fully committed, no notes. There is no “waiting politely” in his birthday philosophy. There is only joy and access. He allowed 60 seconds for the portrait to be taken, and he was ready to go!
Barry, on the other hand, showed up wiff the confidence ob someone who believes this entire ebent was organized in his honor specifically. Hat perfectly placed, posture impeccable, already accepting imaginary applause.
Together, they flanked the pamcake tower like a duo wiff very different strategies but the same goal: cake will be had.
There were moments ob chaos. There were moments ob frosting.
There was absolutely a moment where Fish made a bold mobe early and Barry pretended he had planned it all along.
Happy birthday, boys!!!
You are deeply lubbed—and yes, you can both hab the whipped cream.
To start the birffday weekend we are habbing some corms!! In two days Barry and Fish will be three!!
Fish had not planned to stop on the carpet. Technically speaking, Fish had berry important work to do inside. Word had already reached him—fru a highly reliable source (a waiter carrying a tray past the lobby)—that the after-party contained multiple cheese stations.
Multiple. Stations. This informashun had nearly short-circuited his brain.
Still, as he hurried toward the entrance of the Banity Fair after-party, he suddenly found himself surrounded by flashing cameras.
“Wait! Wait! The other rat!” “Ober here! Look this way!”
Fish froze.
He slowly placed one paw on the small silver posing stand, trying his best to look like a professional celebrity who absolutely belonged there.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
Behind him, a giant glowing BANITY FAIR sign lit up the night while photographers crouched and leaned forward to capture the moment.
Fish tilted his head slightly. He gabe a very serious expression.
Inside his head, howeber, a completely different conversation was happening.
Focus, Fish. You must remain calm. Soon you will reach the cheese.
He could practically smell it drifting fru the open doors.
Soft cheeses.
Sharp cheeses.
Cheeses from countries that probably required passports.
A photographer shouted, “Can you gibe us another pose?”
Fish lifted his chin bravely.
Click click click click.
But his whiskers twitched impatiently.
His tiny paws shifted on the stand.
Finally he leaned toward one nearby reporter and whispered urgently:
“Excuse me… do you happen to know if the cheese trays are already out?”
The reporter burst out laughing.
Fish did not laugh. This was not a joke.
At last the photographers finished their flurry ob pictures.
Fish hopped down from the posing stand, gave one final polite nod to the cameras…
…and ran for the door.
_____________________
Inside, somewhere beyond the music, the lights, and the sea of celebrities…The Banity Fair after-party was not, technically speaking, designed for rats.
This became clear to Reuben almost immediately.
The room was enormous. Music floated through the air. Celebrities drifted past like elegant, sparkly clouds. Waiters carried trays piled wiff delicate food that cost more than an entire Brooklyn bakery window.
Reuben stood just inside the doorway holding Baxter’s Oscar.
He had never held an Oscar before. It was very shiny and slightly heaby for someone wiff such polite little paws.
“Well,” Reuben murmured to himself, “I suppose I should find the others.”
That is when he heard a very familiar voice.
“REUBEN.”
Reuben turned.
There, crouched beside an enormous table, was Fish.
Fish’s eyes were wide. His whiskers were vibrating with excitement. And spread before him like the map of a sacred kingdom was the largest cheese display Reuben had ever seen.
Wheels. Wedges. Crumbles. Soft clouds of brie. Sharp towers of cheddar. Little signs wiff names Fish was already whispering reberently.
“Reuben,” Fish said, barely able to breathe, “this… is… a historic cheese moment.”
Reuben looked down at the table. “Oh my,” he said softly.
Fish had already begun.
He was racing back and forff along the table like a tiny food critic possessed by destiny.
“Triple crème brie from Normandy!”
“Saffron gouda!”
“Truffle pecorino!!”
He paused dramatically.
“REUBEN… THEY HAB TWELBE DIFFERENT GOAT CHEESES.”
Reuben set Baxter’s Oscar carefully on the table so he could examine a slice ob somefing delicate and fragrant.
Across the room, a cluster ob celebrities had gathered.
“Is that… the rat from the acceptance speech?”
“Is that another rat?”
“And… is that one… cataloging cheese?”
Fish had now pulled out a tiny notebook.
“The Oscar Cheese Map,” he explained proudly.
Barry burst fru the curtain a moment later, slightly out of breaff.
“I MISSED THE SPEECH??”
“You did,” Reuben said gently.
Barry noticed the Oscar. His eyes widened. “Oh.”
He picked it up and struck a pose.
“Fank you. Fank you all. I dedicate dis award to my brabery.”
“You were not nominated,” Reuben reminded him.
“Technicality,” Barry said.
At that exact moment a waiter passed wiff a tray ob miniature pastries.
Reuben froze. Tiny fruit tarts. Microscopic croissants. Little custard things that looked like dreams.
He politely selected one.
Fish gasped.
“REUBEN THERE IS ALSO A SECOND CHEESE ROOM.”
“A second—?”
Fish was already gone. Barry was gibbing an acceptance speech to a decoratibe plant.
Reuben sighed happily and took a delicate bite ob pastry.
Across the glamorous, glittering chaos ob the after-party, the tiny rat who preferred qwiet bakeries leaned against Baxter’s Oscar statue and smiled.
“All things considered,” Reuben said softly, “this is a berry nice ebening.”
And somewhere in the building…
Fish was discobering the parmesan tower.
Reuben had neber been to the Oscars before.
In fact, Reuben preferred places that smelled like warm bread and qwiet mornings, not red carpets and thousands ob flashing cameras. But tonight was different.
Tonight he was there for Baxter.
Baxter wiff a B had been nominated for Best Broadway Adaptation for the Screen, and although Baxter wasn’t there to see it, his brothers had promised they would show up properly.
So Reuben came.
The red carpet stretched before him like an endless field ob red belbet cake. Huge lights glowed oberhead. Reporters called out qwestions. Fancy shoes clicked past him in ebery direction.
Reuben leaned gently against a shiny metal stand, trying to look composed while everything around him sparkled and flashed.
“Oh my,” he whispered, adjusting his whiskers.
A photographer spotted him.
“Wait—hold on—is that Reuben from Baxter wiff a B?”
Suddenly the cameras turned.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
Reuben froze for a moment, then did what he always did when unsure of social protocol: he leaned politely on the stand and tried to look thoughtful, like someone waiting patiently for a croissant.
“Reuben! Ober here!”
“What are you wearing tonight?”
Reuben glanced down at his fur.
“…my fur,” he said politely.
The reporters laughed, delighted.
Inside the theater, things were calmer. Belbet seats. Golden lights. The qwiet hum ob anticipashun. Reuben was guided to a seat labeled: BAXTER WIFF A B — NOMINEE.
He climbed up carefully and sat down, folding his tiny paws.
For a moment he just looked at the empty seat beside him.
Baxter would hab lubbed this, he thought.
Not the speeches—Baxter didn’t have much patience for speeches—but the excitement, the ridiculousness of it all. The lights. The applause. The adbenture of it.
Reuben smiled softly. “Don’t worry,” he whispered under his breath. “We’re here.”
Backstage, Fish was probably mapping the cheese trays.
Barry had almost certainly tried to conbince someone to let him sing.
But for now, it was just Reuben sitting qwietly beneath the bright theater lights.
When the category finally arrived, the presenter opened the envelope.
“And the Oscar for Best Broadway Adaptation for the Screen goes to…”
Reuben’s ears lifted slightly.
“…BAXTER WIFF A B!”
The audience erupted in applause.
Reuben blinked once.
Then twice.
“Well,” he said softly. He walked carefully to the stage, the whole theater watching the small, thoughtful rat approach the microphone.
He looked out at the sea of faces, lights shimmering everywhere.
Reuben cleared his throat.
“Hello eberyone.” The room grew berry qwiet.
“This story began wiff a berry special rat named Baxter. He had big ideas, a loud boice, and a habit of pulling all of us into adbentures whether we were ready or not.”
A few soft laughs moved through the audience.
Reuben smiled.
“He believed stories mattered. He believed brothers mattered. And he believed—berry strongly—that ebery great dream should be followed.”
Reuben looked down at the golden Oscar in his paws.
“We miss him very much,” he said gently. “But tonight feels like somefing he would have lubbed.”
He looked back up.
“So on behalf of Baxter… and Waffles, Barry… and Fish… and eberyone who eber believed a tiny rat story could become a big one…”
Reuben gave a small nod.
“Fank you.”
The audience rose to their feet.
And somewhere, up in Heaben, Baxter and Waffles were smiling bigger than eber.
Dr. Kebin sent the boys a baseball, and fings hab debeloped quickly. The Pizza Rat League has officially announced open practice.
Spring training started a little chaotically, but the boys showed real promise.
Reuben stepped up first, calmly holding down the ball like a seasoned pro. Scouts described his style as “thoughtful wiff surprising hustle”. He’s clearly the strategist ob the team.
Fish followed wiff enormous enthusiasms and approximately zero concern for the rulebook. He’s already tried to trade the baseball for cheese twice, but management believes his heart is in the right place.
Barry arribed wiff the confidence ob someone who absolutely assumes he’s the starting pitcher, the team captain, and possibly the league commissioner. No one has corrected him yet.
But one thing is clear…
The Pizza Rat League may be new, but these guys are already playing wiff heart. Fanks Dr. Kebin!
