For this reason, last week my flatmate and I adopted three little boy rats. Firmly believing one's size should not determine the severity or grandiosity of one's name (being a rather petite Millicent myself) we named our tiny rat babies Theodore, Vivian and Nico.
Much to my delight, rats are proving to be altogether more satisfying than most humans.
To begin with, my rats are always happy to see me when I get home from an eight-hour day at work.
Rather than being fed up and repulsed by how tired and grumpy and disgusting I am when I walk through the door, they just want to lick the salty sweat off my palms and they don't even care if my feet smell (they want to lick those, too).
Baby rats can go from sleeping quietly in a pile to playtime in point five of a second.
I don't think anything brings me greater joy than watching them clumsily running in their wheel or rolling in their hammock.
My heart melts when they jump up at the side of the cage and hold on to my fingers with their wee little rat hands to say hello.
While it is probably for the best that I can't pick up a flatmate and tuck them into my jersey when I'm lonely and need a hug, I can do this with a rat.
With only a few minor exceptions, you always know where your rat is.
Nico did spend the greater part of two afternoons escaped and hiding beneath two separate beds.
Trying to catch a baby rat is an absolute nightmare (I didn't know they could jump) but the joy you feel when they finally come out from behind that pipe and climb on to your hand is unparalleled.
Unlike a cat or a person, you know your rat isn't going to be out and about pleasing himself; he is hopefully going to be right where you left him.
Theodore, Vivian and Nico are never going to complain about what you provide for dinner.
Last night I put floury apple in with their rat feed and I thought they were going to have tiny rat aneurysms, they were so excited.
Right now, all three of them are in their bowl stuffing their faces with seeds.
Unlike small children, it isn't difficult to ply them with a healthy diet.
Theodore likes his fibre so much he spends hours at a time sitting in the bowl nibbling away.
Rats don't even care if you keep a messy kitchen, because the more food they can find in inappropriate places the happier they are.
Like the proud rat mother I am, I have filled my phone with blurry photos of my little darlings and I've bored everyone senseless with stories about their baby hands and their happy clicking tongues.
Even both of my parents, proud rodent-haters, have fallen for their charms.
My mother may even be coerced into knitting miniature winter cardigans.
I've always been a cat person who happily tolerates dogs but I now see the error of my ways.
As much as I love her, I could never train my cat to run in a wheel or to climb up my ponytail and sit on my head.
And while it is unlikely I will lose my cat in my mattress, I think I might end up being a rat person for the rest of my life.
Theodore does look like a tiny ice cream, after all.
Millie Lovelock is a Dunedin student.
