To the untrained eye, I may seem like a good petsitter.
1. I have kept my rodent alive for four years.
2. I have lots of time on my hands.
3. Between trips to the package store, I am generally home.
4. I am cheap.
It seems, that the above are the criteria to petsit. I am thinking that the criteria should be tightened up a bit. Not that I'm not the picture of responsibility, because I totally am. For instance, I usually take off my makeup before I go to bed and I don't remember the last time I used spray paint inappropriately. It's been ages, really.
I hope that the people who put me in charge of "Penelope" the Hamster never find this blog. To protect her anonymity, Penelope's name has been changed.
Last week, I was asked to watch Penelope while the "Smith" family visited Grandma and Grandpa Smith. I made several strong arguments against the arrangement. In the end, I lost. Penelope was in my charge.
We had a rocky relationship. At best. She ate a piece of my finger. She ran on that f*cking wheel all night long. She got out of her cage and gnawed on the trim. But by far, the worst thing that Penelope did was to give birth.
I couldn't count them all. A dozen, maybe more. Naked and pink. Naturally, I wretched. Then I ran for the camera. I thought of the glee on the Little Smith's faces when they saw the babies. I thought of the horror on the faces of their parents. Must find camera. I found it in the bathroom. A perfectly logical place for it. Please, no questions.
I ran downstairs to take a picture of the glowing new mother and her slimy offspring. There was only one problem. The babies were gone. Not a single baby was in the cage. I checked my pills. Counted them. Not enough missing for hallucinations to occur. I looked in the cage again. Not a trace. No blood. No bones. No ranch dipping sauce. Penelope stared at me. I gagged again.
The Smith's need never know what happened here.