Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Shakey Bear

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One of our pet rats is sick. She's been acting off for a week now, but there weren't many symptoms past "she looks sort've stiff", "she looks a little dopey" and "she just doesn't seem /right/". I was hoping it was just a sore back leg, or a lingering cold, but she seems weaker every day. It's Sunday today which means it'll be another whole day before we can even take her to the vet. (The very thought makes me want to throw up.)

I spent most of my morning sitting on the floor with her wedged between my thigh and flannel (we've never had any lap rats - we've had shoulder rats and head rats and cradling-in-the arm rats and rats who love snuggling in the small space between pants and overlapping shirts), too worried to leave her in case she's uncomfortable.

I hate these moments that potentially spell out the beginning of the end. Shakey's nearly three, for a rat bought at a garden centre that's already a long life. (Especially since the majority of them are infected with a fatal lung condition.) I've already cried once this morning with Shakey pressed against my chest. She seemed confused when I told her that I loved her V. much, and that I'd do everything humanly possible to -

Scratch this shit. I'm not going to start grieving for a pet that isn't dead. (The LAST thing Shakey needs is for be to be sobbing every fucking time I pick her up or check on her.) I need to yank my morbid panties off and worry about the inevitable when it's impending. If pot and leftover fajitas for breakfast doesn't help me shrug off unnecessary worry, then nothing will.