teenage mutant rat attorney
Or, why you can't sue 3,000 rats
Happy March, friends!
Today's the day many of us are celebrating (?) the one-year anniversary of the COVID-19 pandemic charging through our lives and wrecking everything in the worst way.
But we're not gonna talk about that here! Instead, I'm gonna try and distract us all by sharing what is unequivocally one of my Top 5 favorite weird history anecdotes of all time.
That's right, today we're talking...
That Time France Tried To Take 3,000 Rats To Court
Now, for a little background, let's do a quick 1500s Europe Medical Theory Side Trip. Back in the Renaissance, even doctors didn't know much about human anatomy. (Unlike me. I've watched 14 seasons of Grey's Anatomy since June and could absolutely do a triple bypass in an elevator.)
One of those not-so-accurate medical beliefs was that the human soul was a physical organ, like a kidney or a liver. The problem, of course: when cadaver dissections started becoming a thing, scientists were finding all kinds of kidneys and livers. Souls? Not so much.
Here's a huge oversimplification of the problem, described in the classic Two Monks Invent A Thing style from the late great site The Toast.
Monk 1: wow, we sure have dissected a bunch of animal and human bodies, and we're not seeing a soul in either one of them.
Monk 2: shit. what if humans don't even have souls?
Monk 1: shit shit shit shit shit
Monk 2: no kidding, souls are literally our schtick
Monk 1: ok, hear me out. what if...animals and humans both have souls? they're just, like? very small? and maybe also hiding?
Monk 2: ooh, I like that.
Monk 1: that's why the center of my head is bald. it's where all the good ideas live.
That means for all medical and legal purposes, Renaissance animals were basically the same as humans. Free will, souls, moral culpability, and all.
(By the way, my "Renaissance Conceptions of the Body" professor is so disappointed in me at this summary. Sorry, Kasey.)
Anyway. Let's zoom in a bit now, shall we?
The year was 1508, and the French village of Autun had a problem. Specifically, a rat problem. A swarm of rats had descended on the village's barley crop, which left the village—already threatened by plague—at risk of starvation.
Now, you and I might come up with a handful of ways to address this. Maybe traps. Maybe cats. Maybe get a bunch of tiny swords and capes and hope the rats get so excited about acting out Brian Jacques' Redwall series that they forget about barley.
But remember, the villagers of Autun believed that the rats had immortal souls and were morally responsible for their actions. So they did what they'd have done for anyone caught messing with crops during a plague year:
THEY TRIED TO EXCOMMUNICATE THEM.
And they might have gotten away with it too, if it wasn't for one meddling man:
Barthélemy de Chasseneuz: Teenage Mutant Rat Attorney
Barthélemy was a French lawyer who, at the time of this story, had taken up temporary residence in Autun. And for the sake of this newsletter, thank fuck for that.
The presiding judge decided it wasn't fair for the rats to be excommunicated without a trial, so Barthélemy was appointed as pro bono counsel for the defense. And my man Barty went for it.
First, he argued that rats were solitary creatures, not pack animals, so they couldn't actually be summoned to court en masse. The court needed to issue an individual summons for single rat accused.
The villagers shrugged, then hammered up notice boards at roughly rat height stating that all rats were commanded to appear in the courts at a set date and time. As you do.
The fatal flaw: rats can't read. But did that stop Barthélemy? Of course it didn't.
He argued that of course the rats hadn't come to court! It wasn't safe for them to do so! The path between the barley fields and the courtroom was full of cats! Dogs! Angry people! How could his clients be expected to endanger themselves in such a manner, Your Honor? How, I ask?
The judge had no argument against this, and because cats lived everywhere in France, it was no good transferring the trial to a different courtroom. There was no choice, then, but to dismiss the case.
Barthélemy and the rats: 1. The Pope: 0.
Moral of the story: someone greenlight Law & Order: Special Rats Unit. I will watch every episode.
Book Corner
I have two book-related events coming up in the next two weeks, and I'd love to see you in the virtual audience at either of them!
On March 16, I'm talking A Tip for the Hangman and the road to publication with Laura Thomas, head of the creative writing program at the University of Michigan's Residential College, and Jon Michael Darga, literary agent at Aevitas Creative. This is gonna be a blast, and you can almost count on me and Jon giving each other crap for at least 15% of it. You can register here.
On March 22, I'll be joining an incredible group of thriller and mystery authors at Rogue Women Reads, a Zoom reading series! I'm reading alongside CJ Box, Lisa Gardner, and Alex Finlay, and you won't want to miss it. You can register here.
(This isn't related to either event, but A Tip for the Hangman got a thumbs-up review in the New York Times and no I am still not chill about it thank you for asking.)
As always, you can buy, rate, review, and recommend A Tip for the Hangman wherever books happen.
Oh, and also? Got a dirtbag you'd like to see in the newsletter? I am, now and always, taking requests. Reply with any suggestions you got. Or tweet at me, if that's more your speed.
Until next time, friends and dirtbags, thank you for joining me on this journey of nonsense. It is a joy every time, and it makes it so much better that you're here.
Allison