July 13, 2012 § Leave a comment

I’d love to blame it on the rats but in all honesty- and I am always honest on my blog- it was my fault. 

The worst part is: what happened last night only happened because I decided to set a good example for my little siblings by cleaning my room.  It turns out in the end that it was all a waste because they don’t love me.  I started by lugging my overflowing laundry basket up the stairs to my room.  Setting the basket down with a thump, I vowed that before I went to bed, I’d have all the freshly washed clothes put away in neat little piles.  First though, I wanted to organize my shoes.  So I did.  That took awhile.

Then I moved on to my jewelry shelf.  For those who may be uninformed, I have 4 pet rats in my room (in a cage).  At times each day, I release them from their cage and they scamper merrily about my room, playing with/on/around me, gnawing on my blanket, hiding in the windowsill, bouncing about, sniffing curiously at anything.  For the most part, this arrangement works out fine for everyone.  The one problem has always been my jewelry.  (Well, that’s actually not true, there are plenty of other things they’ve destroyed through their gnawing, biting habits but I don’t want to tell you about them because then you will have a bad impression of rats as pets, and I try to avoid doing that.  Rats as pets are amazing.  I love my fuzzy little guys.)  Anyway, the jewelry.  It’s shiny.  And gnaw-able.  And all different shapes, sizes, and textures.  The rats love my jewelry.  They love sharpening their little ratty teeth on it.

So I put it all, necklaces, bracelets, earrings, rings, on a shelf in my room and threw a blanket over it.  A heavy fleece blanket that they can’t squirm underneath and that they don’t like to chew on.  Hiding my jewelry under a blanket is a little annoying because it tends to get jumbled together more easily, but that’s preferable over discovering Mervy Rat has chomped my pearl earrings into pieces, or Freddy Rat has gnawed his initials into my silver bracelet.  I dont want to put it in jewelry boxes either because I just like having it spread out in front of me.  Last night, with the rats tucked away in their cage, I took the blanket off and started arranging my jewelry into some kind of order.  I heard a small rattle and looked down, thinking I’d just dropped an earring.  After a cursory glance at the floor turned up nothing, I went back to my task.

A little while later, I was diligently putting my laundry away and talking to my rats.  I turned to go to my closet, and that’s when I felt excruciating pain in my foot.  “AHHHHH!!!” I shrieked like a steam whistle and collapsed onto my bed.  Picking up my left foot, I discovered that I had indeed dropped a stud earring before, and I had just stepped RIGHT ONTO THE BACK OF IT.  The little metal spike had driven through the (apparently not heavily callused) ball of my foot like a needle.  A dull needle.  And it was still stuck in me.  There was an earring sticking out of the bottom of my dang FOOT. 

“Okay, you can do this, Rose,” I whimpered and then yanked the earring out of my foot with a yelp of pain.  Drops of blood immediately formed and began to trickle down my foot.  “Someone!  Anyone!  I need a band-aid!!”  I yelled, but yelled in vain.  Eight people live in my house and at least five of them are there at any given time.  Six of them were home when I was yelling and did anyone hear me?  Did anyone come to my aid??  No.  It was like I was Rohan and my family was Gondor and the Westfold was falling.  Nothing but the silence of a long-dead alliance came out of the East/my downstairs.  So, thinking of Aragorn and Frodo and Sam, I dragged myself up and hobbled to my bathroom, only to discover that our Neosporin was downstairs.  I wasn’t about to just slap a band-aid on over that gushing hole without putting some salve on it; my apothecary instincts wouldn’t let me.  I limped down the stairs, wincing at the stabbing sensation that thumped through my foot with every pulse of my blood.  I probably left a trail of blood droplets behind me, but I tried not to.  I held my foot bottom-up behind me and hopped towards my kitchen like a demented Monopod from The Voyage of the Dawn Treader.  Finally I was able to sink down onto a seat in the kitchen and apply my medicine and band-aid.  The various members of my family who were downstairs seemed very unconcerned about my malady.  You’d think I hopped down the stairs, through the living room, and into the kitchen on one foot while moaning in pain every day.  I don’t.

Somehow I made my long, slow, gimping way back up to my bedroom.  My foot throbbed.  I sank onto my bed and looked at the stack of laundry still remaining.  “Forget it,” I muttered in a decidedly peeved tone.  “I’m going to bed.”  I gave the ratties each a small pellet as a snack, checked their water bottles, turned out my light, and went to bed. 

My dreams were filled with blood, with pain, and with the sorrow that no one in my family even asked me what was wrong.


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