Stress Poops

"They're stress pooping! Everywhere!"

Again, I find a little pellet settled nicely on a blanket, or a pillow, or my shoulder. Little Stella and Steve couldn't handle being held, touched, or even really looked at. The stress proved too much and manifested itself in a little brown turd.

I never thought I would have to restrain a small animal, but that's all I've been doing lately. The cage (probably manufactured for a small dog), has proved useless in their relentless attempts at freedom. The moment one gets put inside, it will climb up the bars to what I only imagine it screaming, "FREEDOM!" in a Mel Gibson voice. We've since amped up our security with chicken wire, numerous blankets, a candle, and a laundry basket. We thought it would be enough, but I still come home to find these little Houdini's sitting on the top, looking at me with a smug look of satisfaction that says, "Fuck your cage."

Having an animal that doesn't want to immediately snuggle is also frustrating. Dogs: Always. Cats: Eventually persuaded. But NO. They can't just calm their tiny little heads down so that I can GIVE THEM MY LOVE. It really gets me right in that spot that hurts. The metaphorical heart, or whatever.

Steve and Stella, such a dynamic duo. While both are girls, Beth and I decided that Steve was the best option because we don't conform to gender stereotypes. We're progressive by letting our pets have whatever name we choose for them.

So basically I'm writing this to inform you I have rats living my apartment now. Our landlord said no pets, so we got rats because they're under the threshold of real pets, right? Little pets that won't relinquish their love to me.

I'm only waiting to get home to find Steve sitting atop the cage with his little mouse paw flipping me the bird.