They're addictive. You've got to catch them all.
A nine-month-old patchwork rat named Lucy Lou Ragamuffin walked away — or rather, was carried away — as the grand champion of the rat competition at this year's Sydney Royal Easter Show. Her owner, 79-year-old Sandra McLean, accepted the prize with the quiet satisfaction of someone who has been doing this long enough to know it means something.
The rat and mice event is organised by the NSW Fancy Rodent Society, and it draws a community of breeders and keepers who take their animals seriously without taking themselves too seriously. The judging table is set up with clear plastic containers, each holding a contestant who may or may not cooperate with the proceedings. Most do.
Rachel Sydenham has been keeping and breeding rats for three decades, which makes her the natural choice to judge the rat entries. Her method is straightforward: she lifts the lid, observes the animal's bearing and temperament, and then — when the rat seems comfortable — takes it out to see how it moves, how it climbs, how it holds itself in the world. She's looking for animals that are healthy, well-formed, and genuinely at ease with people. A rat that freezes or flinches doesn't make the cut. A rat that pops its head out of the container, nose working, eyes bright, and proceeds to climb up her arm — that's a contender.
"Working with rats is a bit like working with children," Sydenham says. "They're jokesters." She means it as a compliment. The rats she handles at the judging table — brown ones, white ones, spotted ones — press their small pink hands against the plastic, balance on her palms, and tuck themselves against her chest. She describes them as naturally empathic, with a genuine affinity for human company.
The mice competition runs alongside, with its own panel of judges. Jennifer Birkett, who sits at the centre of that panel wearing a black shirt embroidered with two white mice at the collar, holds each entry close to her face and watches. Many of the mice simply settle into her palm and wait, apparently unbothered.
Sam Dittmer, who has been breeding mice for fifteen years and currently keeps around 75 of them — down from a peak of 135 — arrived with two entries, one in each hand. He introduced them by name. His mouse Twisted Whiskaz Xero took first place in the patchwork category and was ultimately crowned grand champion mouse. Twisted Whiskaz Megan Fox, exhibited by Hollie Winter, placed second overall as champion and won the long coat marked mouse category.
McLean's path to rat ownership began accidentally. She found three baby rats while cleaning her shed, brought them inside, and raised them by hand. That was enough. She has been competing at the Royal Easter Show since 2013 and currently has about forty rats at home, including one named Witchetty, whom she describes as "a bit of a grub." When David Bowie died, she had a litter arrive and named them all after his songs. Ziggy Stardust, she notes, did well at the Royal.
She is clear-eyed about the grief that comes with keeping animals whose lifespans are measured in years rather than decades. "They mightn't have long lives but they have very full lives," she says. People who lose a rat, she adds, go into genuine mourning — the same kind of mourning that follows the loss of a dog or a cat you've had for years. The bond, she insists, is the same in kind if not in duration.
Dittmer made a practical observation about the broader appeal of small pets: as more people move into apartments and compact urban spaces, animals like rats and mice fit the life in a way that larger pets simply cannot. It's a point that the NSW Fancy Rodent Society would probably not argue with.
Sydenham, for her part, says she would stay involved in the rodent community even if she owned none — the welfare work and the people keep her there. But she has at least thirty rats at home, so the question is theoretical. "They're addictive," she says. "They're like Pokémon. You've got to catch them all."
Notable Quotes
They mightn't have long lives but they have very full lives, and they give a lot of joy.— Sandra McLean, owner of grand champion rat Lucy Lou Ragamuffin
As more people move into apartments and have smaller living spaces, these small pets are perfect.— Sam Dittmer, mouse breeder and grand champion winner
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
What actually separates a grand champion rat from an ordinary one?
It's less about looks than you'd expect. Temperament carries real weight — a rat that's curious, calm, and comfortable with strangers scores higher than a beautiful animal that freezes up.
So the rat has to perform, in a sense?
In a sense. It has to climb up the judge's arm, balance on her palms, show that it's at ease in the world. The body is assessed, but so is the whole disposition of the animal.
Why do people get so attached to animals with such short lives?
McLean addresses that directly — she says the lives are short but full, and the bond is real regardless. People mourn their rats the way they mourn dogs. The duration doesn't determine the depth.
Is there something specific about rats, or is this just the general human-animal bond?
Sydenham thinks there's something specific. She describes them as empathic, as jokesters, as animals that genuinely respond to people. That reciprocity seems to be the thing.
The apartment angle Dittmer raised — is that a real trend or just a passing observation?
It's probably both. Small pets fit small spaces, and cities are getting denser. The fancy rodent community may be niche now, but the conditions that make it appealing are only becoming more common.
What does it mean that a 79-year-old woman who started by rescuing shed rats is now winning grand champion?
It means the hobby has a long arc. McLean didn't set out to be a competitor — she just fell in love with three foundlings. Thirty-odd years later, she's at the top of the show. That's a particular kind of story.