There’s a Paris politician who walks around with a live rat on his shoulder. I wish that sentence were a joke, but it’s not. His name’s Gregory Moreau, and this isn’t a Halloween stunt or a social experiment. It’s his actual campaign to “reconcile Parisians with rats.”
I’ve seen some strange public-relations ideas in my time, but this one’s right up there with eating Tide Pods and calling it content.
He strolls through markets with the rat, who apparently has a name—Plume—as if giving it a cute name somehow makes the situation less revolting. People stop and stare. Some smile, probably out of politeness. Others recoil, which is the correct reaction when a city official is making eye contact with you while a rodent’s tail brushes his neck.
And yet, this man believes he’s doing good work. He calls rats “misunderstood.” Says they eat a hundred tons of garbage every day, which technically makes them sanitation workers, I guess. Personally, I’d rather deal with overflowing bins than watch one gnaw a croissant on someone’s shoulder.
Here’s what’s wild: he’s not trolling. He’s serious. Distributing flyers with happy rat photos in front of the Eiffel Tower, pitching them as “cute helpers of the city.” Meanwhile, another mayor across town—clearly a man of stronger stomach—posed with four dead rats to prove the opposite point. You’ve got one guy cuddling them, the other displaying them like trophies. Paris politics has officially gone feral.
You can intellectualize this all you want—talk about animal rights, ecosystems, the moral duty to coexist. Fine. But it’s still a rat. You can’t PR-spin the smell out of that.
There’s something deeply unsettling about the way people will twist themselves into believing filth is virtue if they can attach the right message to it. It’s compassion gone off the rails. Instead of cleaning up the city, we’re learning to “accept” the creatures that thrive on the mess.
Imagine you’re out grabbing groceries, and a man with a rat on his shoulder hands you a leaflet about empathy. Do you thank him? Or do you drop your produce and run?
The thing that really turns my stomach is how calm he looks in the photos. Completely unbothered. Like this is normal, like we should all be adjusting our comfort levels to meet his. I can’t help picturing that tail brushing against his collar. The little claws shifting on the fabric. The smell of the street clinging to the fur.
People like to say, “If you can make it in Paris, you can make it anywhere.” I’m not sure that applies to rats, but they’re definitely trying. And now they have a spokesman.
You know what this reminds me of? When people romanticize pigeons in city parks. They’ll call them “urban doves.” No—they’re sky rats. And rats are ground pigeons. There’s nothing noble about scavengers. They do what they do because they have to. But glorifying it? That’s something else entirely.
It’s not compassion—it’s performance. The kind of thing that plays well on social media because it looks edgy and “kind.” But it’s also the exact opposite of what a city should be aspiring to. Paris isn’t supposed to be the capital of coexistence with vermin. It’s supposed to be, well, livable.
And look, I’m not anti-animal. I like dogs. Cats. Even squirrels, when they stay in the trees. But a rat riding shotgun on your shoulder while you lecture people about tolerance? That’s not empathy. That’s a health code violation with a press pass.
Somewhere, there’s a restaurant owner paying extra to keep rats out of the kitchen. And meanwhile, a public official is encouraging them back into polite society. That’s the kind of logic that makes you question if civilization’s just been winging it this whole time.
What’s next? Pigeons at city hall meetings? Roaches in the orchestra pit? Maybe a “Cockroach Awareness Month” to celebrate their resilience.
At some point, common sense has to make a comeback. You can care about animals without confusing pests for citizens. The rat doesn’t need acceptance—it needs distance. Preferably in the form of a trap.
When I read this story, I kept thinking: if this happened anywhere else, people would lose their minds. But it’s Paris, so everyone just shrugs and calls it avant-garde. That’s the word you use when you don’t have the energy to call something insane.
I’ll give Moreau this: he’s consistent. He believes rats have a place in the city. And after watching this unfold, I agree—on the other end of a broom.
Because there’s no way to sugarcoat it. You can dress it up in moral philosophy, call it an experiment in coexistence, print pamphlets with adorable whiskers and soft lighting. It’s still disgusting. It still makes you want to gag.
And the worst part? He probably thinks he’s changing the world. In a way, he is. One horrified citizen at a time.