Once there was a Rat named Rupert who had a job in a research laboratory. As lab rats go he was a fine specimen. He had worked his way steadily up the career path in educational psychology by hard work, obedience and carefully avoiding any tasks that would end with his having a brain dissection. He was now a master rat.
He was employed to prepare other rats for their life in the maze, settling them down, explaining the basics and getting them through the right starting gate. Some might have described him as a Judas rat but he comforted himself by thinking of his role as that of helper. Even those young rats whom he knew were going to their doom would find their passage eased by his care. He also knew that this was the highest rung that he would reach on the career ladder. After all, where could he go from here? He lacked the skills to become a lab assistant, researcher or psychologist, not to mention the size. Despite this, he was happy. “I’ve gone just about as far as a rat can go,” he would say proudly to his family and friends. Others praised his achievements in the field, although he suspected that his part in the results would never be fully acknowledged. Nevertheless he felt valued and secure, knowing that he was doing a damn good job in often difficult circumstances.
He fondly remembered the days of TQM - Total Quality Management - and although that commercial craze was long past, he could see its legacy. All walls in the maze were the same uniform colour, height and thickness and the cheese at the centre used as a reward was of absolutely consistent quality. It tasted like crap of course but it was consistent and that was the important thing. Wasn’t it?
Each day, he would pack himself a substantial lunch as he knew he would be very hungry by midday. Once he arrived at the maze he was supervising he would tuck it away in a secure spot behind an unused cage and then go to work. It was a routine he had followed for weeks, a very long time for him as a rat only lives for a couple of years. This routine had never failed him until one fateful day.

Twenty odd rats he had ushered though the flap that morning, calming their fears and describing the rewards they could reach if they were energetic and diligent enough to reach the centre of the maze. He’d earned his own reward. But, when he reached his hiding place it was gone.
Horror! What was he to do? It wasn’t as if it was some lump of cheese that had fallen from the sky as sometimes seemed to happen in the maze. He remembered his studies in maze economics - Surplus Cheese Theory and all that.
No, he had earned that lunch and prepared it himself. And worked hard. He was entitled.
Now, here it was, GONE.

Of course, being a rat he had a remarkable sense of smell. No mere dog could compete with him. Fully one quarter of his brain was directly connected to his nose. He didn’t so much see his surroundings as smell their shape, colour and texture. So he could not only smell where his lunch had been but also the faint trail of scent it left in the air. He could even smell the thief. It was a heavy, musky odour of deceit and treachery, or so it seemed to his keen and whiskered nose. Hunger made him brave and he set off in pursuit. He hadn’t gone more than a few metres and turned a few corners before he came upon the culprit.
It looked very much like a weasel and it was just cramming the last of his sandwiches into it’s pink maw. “Very nice,” it said, licking a claw or two.
“Hey,” objected Rupert, “that was my lunch!”
“Then I’ve just eaten your lunch,” sneered the weasel, “and if you aren’t careful…you may become my dinner!”
“But you can’t go around stealing food off hard-working lab rats. It’s isn’t fair!”
“I just did and from the rather rotund look of you, you can afford to miss a meal. And what’s fair got to do with it anyway? Do you expect ME to go wandering around this wretched maze in the faint hope of finding a snack when I can just grab yours instead? No way.”
The rat backed off slowly. He’d seen the teeth and he was smart enough to know that he had no chance in this discussion. Better to appease the beast rather than meet a swift and messy end.
“So, how is that you’re in the lab then?” he asked politely. “Someone leave a door open?”
“Nope,” replied the weasel. “I work here now. I’m the new maze supervisor. You can call me Sir.”
Rupert was dumbfounded.
“Supervisor? But that’s my job! Has been for ages!”
“Don’t be daft,” replied the weasel. “You’re a rat. How on earth could you possibly expect to be supervisor?”
“But I’ve been doing the job for ages,” he squeaked faintly, doomed.
“You’ve been doing a job for a while,” the weasel conceded, “but you can hardly expect a rat to be given any real responsibility, can you?
“Besides the results have been a bit shaky of late. For goodness sake, half the rats couldn’t find their way past the first corner, never mind to the centre of the maze.”
“But I could do better,” Rupert protested. “It’s just that this new crop of rats aren’t interested in a career in research. Some have them have heard whispers that they may be ‘sacrificed’ after the task. And they are so recalcitrant. Goodness, in my day young rats had never even heard of euthanasia. Now they expect them to be able to spell it!”
Naturally the weasel didn’t understand him as he was not a rat and had no idea what rats thought or worried about. Nor did he care. He’d never had to run a maze and couldn’t understand why anyone would want to do it. He just had to make sure that they did and making other animals do what they were told was definitely his speciality.
“But you’re a CARNIVORE!” the helpless, hopeless rat insisted. “They can’t put a weasel in charge of rats. You EAT rats.”
“Exactly,” beamed the weasel. “What better incentive for a rat to run the maze well. They’ve got me right behind them, all teeth, claws and bloodlust. Plus, it makes perfect sense to the researchers. No more going out to buy quantities of food or gassing failed rats. I simply kill and eat the failures. It’s neat, logical and tidy.”
“But it doesn’t make SENSE,” screamed Rupert.
“Hmm. You don’t cope well with change do you,” grinned the weasel, showing his needle fangs. “I really don’t think you’re going to last long. Our bosses, the researchers, have spent long hours discussing this. I’m on board with it and in fact it is based on a submission I made to them a couple of weeks back. They appreciated my input and recognised the value that I would have in the organisation. It really isn’t your place to question those wise heads above us – way up above us in fact.
Now you’ll simply have to adapt or ship out. In fact I believe that there is a position in the laboratory next door. They need a senior rat to train up a new generation of lead rats. If you can’t deal with the new regime here, I’m sure that I can organise a transfer.”
Rupert blanched with fear - no mean feat considered he was an albino but even his eyes turned a panicky pale rose.
“But,” he stuttered, “that’s the neurological research unit! No-one lives more than a week in there, not even the supervisors. A quick run through a couple of mazes with wires stuck in your brain and then you’re decapitated and your head sliced up like a cheap loaf of bread.”
“And that’s precisely why they need rats of your age and experience. No-one lives long enough to work out what is going on. A steady supply of old hands and wise heads is required. Especially heads.
Of course, if you’d rather stay here,” the weasel grinned evilly, “you will have to adjust your expectations somewhat. Now for my lunch tomorrow I’d like a couple of rounds of ham and cheese. You, of course, won’t have time for lunch so you won’t be doing any extra or working any harder in having to make my lunch. After all, I don’t want you to think that management is being harsh or treating you unfairly.
Be assured that we do appreciate your efforts so far and I’m sure you’ll continue to be a valued member of the laboratory staff – or else.”
Rupert slunk off and, looking over his shoulder, he saw the weasel grinning after him. He distinctly heard the weasel mock him by hissss whisspering, “I’m very fond of ham and cheese – and rat!”
When he reached his work station he found a note waiting for him. His family had been moved into the filthy, cramped run down cage where he once hid his lunch and the new weasel would inherit his spacious and airy quarters. A final indignity. Of course, if the new quarters were too cramped, the weasel’s note said, he would be delighted to arrange alternative accommodation for his older children – in the laboratory next door.
Rupert could almost hear the sneer in the words. He ate the note as he was very hungry. He had missed lunch. It made him feel slightly nauseous. He was late to bed that night. It had taken the family hours to clean the cramped new quarters after he had broken the bad news and moved them over. In the dim light he lay sleepless next to his doe and contemplated the inspirational wall plaques they had brought with them. He could just make out his favourites .

There was the old French proverb –

He considered his options. Of course, he could fight! “Better to die on your paws than live on your belly! - No,” he thought. “No point. I’d meet a swift and bloody end, I’d be replaced in hours, no-one would give a damn and the weasel would get a meal out of it.”
So, what could he do?
“Hey,” he thought, “I CAN embrace change. I don’t have to accept the options they gave me. I don’t have to suck up to that weasel, or fight him or accept a transfer to a death camp.
This is a REAL opportunity.”
The next morning, Rupert and his family were long gone. An application to a nearby pet store was accepted with alacrity. His pups all went to good homes within the week and both Rupert and his partner were adopted by a vegetarian animal rights campaigner with a heart of gold and ears pierced with silver. In gratitude, a week or so later, he showed her the unguarded back door to the research facility and all the rats were released. He saw out his days on his owner’s’ shoulder or deep in her pockets in a litter of succulent crumbs and edible fragments - although he really really missed the ham.
The weasel didn’t last long, of course. Without someone actually doing the job the experimental program soon faltered. Many rats didn’t even make it into the maze and the weasel looked suspiciously fat and lazy. Worst of all, most of the survivors still couldn’t out how to get much further than the first corner and weren’t too ‘motivated’ by the now sluggish predator - the rate of maze graduation did not rise as promised - it plummeted.
There was no choice but to promote the weasel out of the way and get back to business as usual. The weasel remained utterly convinced of its own inevitable success and continued to promote the scheme, claiming that it hadn’t been given a fair chance and that there were no more that a few ‘teething’ problems.
Some other laboratories actually fell for the idea despite all the evidence.

There are several possible morals to be learned from this fable.
Take your pick.

To every complex social problem there is a simple, quick and easy answer. And it is the wrong answer.

There is always some weasel with a ‘fix-it-quick’ idea. They usually have an ill-defined doctorate and a suspiciously impressive resume. You would not listen to them if you were not looking for that quick and simple answer.

Change may be necessary at times but new ideas should always be examined sceptically. After all, the old ones were once new and probably did work at some point so it may be useful to re-examine them first.

Cheese does not simply appear like manna from heaven – it is earned and, strangely, those who earned it feel that they have a right to eat it.

Why adapt to worsening work conditions when you can vote with your paws and simply climb out of the maze?

All analogies can be stretched way, way too far and no matter how cute they sound, they no longer make sense.

Anyone can write dumb, cute fables that sound profound and meaningful. If I could sell this one to a million people, I’d be rich too.
Then I could contemplate some serious change!