They're like Pokémon. You've got to catch them all.
Each autumn in Sydney, a quiet corner of the Royal Easter Show becomes a stage for one of the more tender competitions in the agricultural calendar — the judging of fancy rats and mice. Here, breeders who have spent decades in the company of small, bright-eyed creatures gather to have their animals assessed not merely on form, but on joy, health, and the willingness to trust a stranger's hand. It is a reminder that the human capacity for devotion extends to the smallest of companions, and that community can form around almost any shared love.
- Beneath the noise of one of Australia's largest public events, a meticulous and surprisingly tender competition unfolds — rats and mice are being judged not just on looks, but on whether they seem genuinely happy.
- Common assumptions about rodents as pests or nuisances collide with the reality on the judges' table, where animals climb arms, cuddle into palms, and meet human eyes with apparent curiosity and calm.
- Breeders managing colonies of dozens to seventy-five animals navigate categories from patchwork to long coat, each hoping their carefully raised animal will earn the title of grand champion.
- A seventy-nine-year-old competitor who stumbled into rat-keeping by finding orphaned babies in a shed has been competing since 2013 — her rat Lucy Lou Ragamuffin takes the top prize this year.
- The hobby is quietly expanding as apartment living grows, drawing people who want small, affectionate companions and find, often to their own surprise, that they cannot stop at just one.
At the judges' table of the Sydney Royal Easter Show, Rachel Sydenham lifts the lid of a clear container and a brown rat presses his pink hands against the plastic before climbing up to meet her. Sydenham has been keeping and breeding rats for thirty years, and she knows what a grand champion looks like — not just in form, but in temperament. She takes each animal out, lets it climb her arm, watches how it moves. "Working with rats is a bit like working with children," she says. "They're jokesters."
The competition is run by the NSW Fancy Rodent Society, and across the panel sits Jennifer Birkett, mice relaxing in puddles on her palm as she assesses them. Sam Dittmer, fifteen years into mouse breeding and currently keeper of about seventy-five animals, brings forward entries including one named Twisted Whiskaz Megan Fox. His mouse Twisted Whiskaz Xero is ultimately crowned grand champion mouse, while Megan Fox, exhibited by Hollie Winter, takes champion and first place in the long coat marked category.
The grand champion rat is Lucy Lou Ragamuffin, exhibited by Sandra McLean — seventy-nine years old and competing at the Royal since 2013. She came to rats by accident, finding three babies in her shed and hand-raising them. She now keeps around forty, including one named Witchetty "who's a bit of a grub." When a litter arrived the day David Bowie died, she named them after his songs. Ziggy Stardust did well at the Royal.
McLean speaks about the grief people feel when they lose a rat — the same depth, she says, as losing a dog or cat. The bond is real. Sydenham agrees, describing rats as empathic, interactive, and frankly addictive. "They're like Pokémon," she says. "You've got to catch them all." As apartment living grows and people seek smaller companions, this quiet, devoted community keeps growing — one bright-eyed, curious animal at a time.
Rachel Sydenham lifts the lid of a clear container at the judges' table and peers inside. A brown rat looks back at her, black eyes bright and curious, tiny pink hands pressing against the plastic before he climbs up to poke his face out into the air. Sydenham has been keeping and breeding rats for thirty years. She is the judge of rat entries at the Sydney Royal Easter Show, and she knows what she is looking for.
The rat and mice competition is run by the NSW Fancy Rodent Society, an organization that brings together a community of breeders, enthusiasts, and people who simply fell in love with rodents and never looked back. What makes a grand champion rat, Sydenham explains, is not just appearance. The animal must be happy, healthy, functional, and friendly. She observes each rat's physical form first, then its temperament. When the animal seems comfortable enough, she takes it out, lets it stand and climb up her arm, watches how it moves and responds. "Working with rats is a bit like working with children," she says. "They're jokesters."
The next rat is white. She picks it up, its thick tail dragging behind, and holds it close, patting it gently. Another rat, mostly white with light brown splotches, balances on her palms. Many of the animals seem happy to be handled, to cuddle close as she assesses them. Sydenham describes rats as having a natural affinity for people and a capacity for empathy that surprises those who have never spent time with them.
Across the judges' panel sits Jennifer Birkett, wearing a black shirt with two white mice embroidered on her collar. She holds each mouse close to her face, and many of them sit relaxed in a puddle atop her palm, unbothered by the scrutiny. Sam Dittmer, who has been breeding mice for fifteen years and currently keeps about seventy-five of them, brings forward entries including one named Twisted Whiskaz Megan Fox. As the mouse crawls up his arm, Dittmer reflects on why the hobby appeals to so many people. "As more people move into apartments and have smaller living spaces, these small pets are perfect," he says. "It's a lovely community."
The judging process is meticulous. Mice are assessed in categories like coarse coat, soft coat, and patchwork. Rats are similarly divided. The judges compare the scores each animal has earned in its individual class, and the animals with the highest overall scores across the entire show receive the major awards: grand champion, champion, and reserve champion. Dittmer's mouse, Twisted Whiskaz Xero, places first in the patchwork mouse category and is crowned grand champion mouse. Twisted Whiskaz Megan Fox, exhibited by Hollie Winter, comes in second overall as champion and places first in the long coat marked mouse category.
The grand champion rat is a nine-month-old named Lucy Lou Ragamuffin, exhibited by Sandra McLean. McLean is seventy-nine years old and has been competing in the show since 2013. She first came to rats by accident, finding three baby rats while cleaning her shed and deciding to hand-raise them. "I just fell in love with rats," she says. She now keeps about forty rats at home, including one named Witchetty "who's a bit of a grub." She once had a litter arrive on the day David Bowie died, and she named the rats after Bowie songs. Ziggy Stardust did well at the Royal.
McLean speaks about the depth of attachment people develop to their rats. "You can interact with a rat and they'll interact with you," she says. "Who couldn't fall in love with that face?" The animals may not live long lives, but they live full ones and give a lot of joy. When people lose a rat, she has observed, they grieve deeply—the same way they would grieve a dog or cat they had lived with for many years. The bond is real and substantial.
Sydenham, for her part, says she would remain involved in the rodent community even if she owned no rats at all, because she is passionate about animal welfare and because "the people are lovely." But with at least thirty rats at home, she is nowhere near rat-less. "They're addictive," she says. "They're like Pokémon. You've got to catch them all. They're characters, jokers, absolute comedians. They're just endearing."
Citas Notables
They're characters, jokers, absolute comedians. They're just endearing.— Rachel Sydenham, rat judge and breeder
You can interact with a rat and they'll interact with you. Who couldn't fall in love with that face?— Sandra McLean, grand champion rat exhibitor
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
What separates a champion rat from just any rat someone might keep at home?
It comes down to three things working together: how the animal looks, how it behaves, and whether it's genuinely comfortable around people. A judge will handle it, watch it move, see if it's curious or fearful. The best ones are relaxed, interactive, almost playful.
So temperament matters as much as the physical traits?
Absolutely. You could have a rat with perfect markings, but if it's nervous or aggressive, it won't win. These judges are looking for animals that are thriving—healthy, engaged, friendly. It's about the whole animal.
Why do you think people get so attached to rats specifically? They're not cuddly in the way a dog is.
But they are cuddly, actually. They seek out human contact. They're empathic. They remember people, respond to them. And there's something about their size and their expressiveness—those tiny hands, those whiskers—that just gets under your skin. People bond with them the way they bond with any pet they spend time with.
Sandra McLean mentioned that people grieve their rats intensely. Is that common?
Very. The grief is real because the relationship is real. A rat might only live two or three years, but in that time, you're interacting with it daily, watching its personality develop. When it's gone, you've lost something genuine.
The hobby seems to be growing, especially among apartment dwellers.
It makes sense. You don't need much space, but you get a pet that's interactive and engaging. And once you're in the community, you realize there's a whole world of people who are serious about breeding, showing, and caring for these animals. It's not a casual thing for most of them.
Do the breeders ever worry about the animals' short lifespans?
They acknowledge it, but they frame it differently. Yes, the lives are short, but they're full. The animals experience a lot of joy, and they give a lot back. It's a different kind of relationship than with a dog or cat, but it's no less meaningful.