(no subject)
I have a half an hour to write this before I have to go outside and shovel snow with my brother. Shoveling snow with my brother isn't really shoveling snow with him, it's me doing the work while he stands around and complains or plays in it. At least, I'm assuming, given his behavior when it was time to rake leaves.
Anyway.
So, I have a gerbil. I bought him on the weekend after my birthday, and so he's what, two months old? He wasn't a baby when I got him, he was fully grown, so I seriously have no idea how old he was. He could be three months, six months, a year, or more. The average life span for a gerbil is one to two years. Okay? The first month was fine. Mom hated him, but he was playful and fun and happy, and he liked being held and he didn't bite me and we got along really nice. And then come December, he started biting me, and I mean, real bites. He drew blood, okay? Not cool. So I stopped picking him up, because homie don't play that.
And then he started trying to get out of his cage. It's a 10 gallon tank with a screen lid, so I put some books on it. He would just jump up and hit his whole body on the screen, and it was annoying. He would seriously go at it for hours. And then he would hit the water bottle, too, which was metal and plastic, and which made a REALLY annoying smack-clank sound. So, I was trying to get to sleep two nights ago, and he kept doing it, and I was about to take the bottle out, when he stopped. So then around five AM, he does it again, so I remove the bottle and replace it later in the day. I change his food and water once a week, because that's what you do with gerbil. Enough said.
So today my mom goes into my room and is all "He's dead, you killed him, you got your wish. There was no food in there."
A little node in my brain cries out, BULLSHIT. Not that he's dead or that I got my wish (I never wished Dobby dead, and he was a little curmudgeon if there ever was one, but I'll admit that I wished Apollo would just run away or something), but that there was no food in there. I fed him on Wednesday. She said there was no food in his bowl.
Well, duh. Gerbils and hamster and little rodents, what do they do? They hide their food, for fuck's sake. Check his bedding. Er, well, don't, because I didn't clean it last week. Anyway. Now she's going off on this big "He suffered and that means nothing to you!" tangent. She's also saying that he didn't just drop dead.
Well, au contrair, Dobby dropped dead. For all either of us knows, he could've cracked his head on the god damn water bottle. I think that's some kind of poetic justice. But I'm not going around throwing some huge party because he's dead, which is what she probably thinks I'm doing. I don't want an animal to die, especially one I'm taking care of, no matter how much of a pain in the fucking ass it was. But seriously, I've had too many animals kick the bucket on me to get all upset about one I didn't like all that much.
Anyway.
So, I have a gerbil. I bought him on the weekend after my birthday, and so he's what, two months old? He wasn't a baby when I got him, he was fully grown, so I seriously have no idea how old he was. He could be three months, six months, a year, or more. The average life span for a gerbil is one to two years. Okay? The first month was fine. Mom hated him, but he was playful and fun and happy, and he liked being held and he didn't bite me and we got along really nice. And then come December, he started biting me, and I mean, real bites. He drew blood, okay? Not cool. So I stopped picking him up, because homie don't play that.
And then he started trying to get out of his cage. It's a 10 gallon tank with a screen lid, so I put some books on it. He would just jump up and hit his whole body on the screen, and it was annoying. He would seriously go at it for hours. And then he would hit the water bottle, too, which was metal and plastic, and which made a REALLY annoying smack-clank sound. So, I was trying to get to sleep two nights ago, and he kept doing it, and I was about to take the bottle out, when he stopped. So then around five AM, he does it again, so I remove the bottle and replace it later in the day. I change his food and water once a week, because that's what you do with gerbil. Enough said.
So today my mom goes into my room and is all "He's dead, you killed him, you got your wish. There was no food in there."
A little node in my brain cries out, BULLSHIT. Not that he's dead or that I got my wish (I never wished Dobby dead, and he was a little curmudgeon if there ever was one, but I'll admit that I wished Apollo would just run away or something), but that there was no food in there. I fed him on Wednesday. She said there was no food in his bowl.
Well, duh. Gerbils and hamster and little rodents, what do they do? They hide their food, for fuck's sake. Check his bedding. Er, well, don't, because I didn't clean it last week. Anyway. Now she's going off on this big "He suffered and that means nothing to you!" tangent. She's also saying that he didn't just drop dead.
Well, au contrair, Dobby dropped dead. For all either of us knows, he could've cracked his head on the god damn water bottle. I think that's some kind of poetic justice. But I'm not going around throwing some huge party because he's dead, which is what she probably thinks I'm doing. I don't want an animal to die, especially one I'm taking care of, no matter how much of a pain in the fucking ass it was. But seriously, I've had too many animals kick the bucket on me to get all upset about one I didn't like all that much.