Remember back when these were little, tiny, flesh colored blobs of animal cells? They would sit there and squeak quietly and spend their whole day sleeping and nursing. Those days are gone. These little tykes are all over the place. They wrestle with each other. They tag team. They wrestle with my feet or my hands. They wrestle with their mom. They wrestle with their dad. They'll team up on them in either a frisky parent-child playtime or in some sort of weird Menendez-brotheresque episode. They want treats, treats and more treats. I am their plaything, but I am also the provider of the treats.

When I open the door to their cage, they spill out and wreak as much havoc as they can to each other and to my doors. They eat carpet and door frames.

I've seen rats in petstores that are this age that sit there looking depressed and a little unhealthy (I wish I could save them all). These rats are nothing like that. They are super playful, super happy, super healthy.

My hand is not just a plaything or a provider of treats, but also a chew thing. They always nibble on my fingers and fingernails. They climb all over me. In my shirt, my sleeves, etc...

The whole span of Brook and her babies should be used in text books on the subject. She's been great. The babies have been flawless. No problems (knock on wood), all healthy and active. I read stories from other people whose new mom had some babies not survive or had problems. This whole situation has been good from the beginning.