Licorice The Mouse

Continued from this post here.

So the mouse in the cage did not look like our pet mouse Licorice. I screamed, and told Hubby that he just picked up a wild, disease-ridden rodent! Panicked expression on his face (he's a Germ-a-phobe), he ran to the cage and insisted it was Licorice, but with a 'fro. It's true, Licorice had a new 'do. It was a 'fro. And a little lighter color, less charcoal grey, and more, dust ball grey. Like she'd been camping out in a dust bunny. Or got lit up by the pilot light in the furnace.

So, she stayed there in her cage for a few more days; enough to fake us out that she'd stay. And then *poof* disappeared. There were mouse droppings all over the garage, showing us that she was definitely not changing her address.

As I was leaving to take a walk last week, I saw the red carpet runner that I threw out in the garage after I destroyed it in the dryer, and not wanting the neighbors to think I was trashy (you know, the kind of neighbor with a mice breeding ground in their garage), I picked up the carpet and walked it over to the trash can that was about to be picked up by the garbage man. I almost made it, but I felt something lightly scurry across one of my hands. Having just written Cockroach Chronicles, I was a tad bit jumpy.

I screamed hysterically (maybe more than a tad bit) and threw the carpet! Something leaped off my hand and made a muffled splatting sound on the driveway. I stopped screaming when I saw it was not the Cockroach Chronicles Revisited, but just Licorice. She had been living in the discarded rug and when I picked it up, she scurried out and jumped on my hand, then got flung off when I went crazy.

I'm sure the neighbors got a laugh. I reached down and picked Licorice up and put her back in the cage and told Hubby that we have to take her to a field and let her go. No one pays attention to her, and I definitely don't want her getting the romantic attention from a wild mouse.

This morning, we had to make a run to the dump. As we were loading up empty boxes, Hubby picked up the red rug. Out plopped Licorice, and because Hubby is skittish and has short-term memory, he jumped and yelled when she came out. That was enough to make my day right there!

So, as it stands, we still have the mouse. Any creative ideas about how to get rid of a pet mouse, nicely?

Cockroach Chronicles: Part Two (Ewww!)

So I didn't creep you out enough yesterday. You're back for more! It's like sniffing a sponge over and over. Or smelling sour milk repeatedly. You just have to go back and make sure it is as bad as you thought it was the first time.

Have you ever stepped on a roach barefoot? More specifically, a roach on carpet, while in your half asleep 2am stupor trying to make it to the toilet? Roaches are cold. For three long years I flipped on the bright hallway light to make sure there were no roaches dying on the path to the toilet. I would say 50 percent of the time, there was one there acting as a road block.

But that pales in comparison to what happened next.

We made plans to go hike a water fall with friends. We got ready and went to pick them up. We made the hour drive to the falls, got out and began the hike. It took about 45 minutes to get to the falls. In all, from the time I put my shoes on earlier that day, until I reached the waterfall, it was 4 hours.

I hate wrinkles in my socks. I kept feeling like there was a wrinkle in the heel of my sock. I pulled and pulled but there was no possible way it was a wrinkle. I thought maybe it was a tiny little twig or piece of straw that wedged its way in there. I suffered through, trying to ignore it, like my mom always told me when I had sock-wrinkle phobia as a child. When we got to the top of the trail, I'd had enough. I took my shoe off to see what was causing me the discomfort.
Do you see where I'm going with this???

It was a big, fat, juicy cockroach! I started hopping backwards on one foot, with my hands over my ears, shrieking like a crazy girl. My shrieks turned into howls and tears and actual retching. My husband and our two friends thought I was having some kind of a seizure. Everyone at the previously peaceful falls watched in horror. I was convulsing and managed to spit out, "R-r-r-r- (retch) ROACH. ROACH. SHOE." (retch again). My husband and his friend ran over to the shoe, kicked out the roach, and grabbed some rocks and started stoning it to death. I will never, EVER forget how many direct hits it took until it finally died.

The creepiest thing is that it was trapped under my heel for four hours, and it was still alive. (Now is not the time to tell me that horrid story about how roaches live for a week with their heads cut off. I already YouTubed it. I cannot discuss.)

I ripped the contaminated sock off, refused to put my shoe back on, and hobbled the rest of the way back to the car.

And if you mention "sock", chances are.....I have a roach story to go with it. Fast forward a few years. Parent's house again. Put on a fresh pair of socks to wear around their house (no shoes rule). Something was tickling my pinkie toe. I screamed and said it felt like a fly was in my sock! My sister said, "With your luck, it's probably not a fly, but a roach." I ripped that sock off and there was a baby roach that was cut in half but still alive. Cut in half by my pinkie toenail. And did I mention, still alive?! And you know I don't have to actually type the word 'screaming' for you to visualize me now.

So the last roach story of Cockroach Chronicles: Part Two, happened again on a summer's evening at my parents' house. We were coming to get the kids after an evening of house hunting without them. My son was a whiny baby, and he was crying and looking out the living room window as we pulled up. I got out of the car, walked up and rapped on the window and make funny faces at him to make him laugh. I swatted away some mosquitoes and moths that were hangin' out near the porch light.

I walked in the door. I felt something run across my face and down my neck. I didn't need to let me imagination run, because my sister's eyes were as giant as saucers, mouth wide open, no sound coming out, staring at me. I did the Roach Run (again visualize Jennifer Grey in Ferris Bueller's Day Off), slapping my face and screaming at the top of my lungs. I slapped that foul beast off my face, it slid across the kitchen floor, looked at me (it's true!) and ran back into the living room.

What is it with me and the bug I fear the most? I can honestly say I have never eaten one on accident, and if I did, you better believe you'd never see another blog post again. I'd be gone. Dead, that is. I know I'd have a heart attack. And if my children ever ate one, well, I'd have to get new ones. Not really. But I might not look at them the same again.

And why are there so many stories about roaches entering body orifices at night? Ears, noses, blehhhh,...and even stories of them eating eye lases and toenails. I. Have. To. Stop. This. Post. Now. For. Sanity's. Sake.
Enjoy:

Cockroach Chronicles: Part One

The paralyzing fear began in the summer of '87. There was an incident in my bedroom. This is when I found out....they can fly.

It was a hot, humid Oregon summer. There was a somewhat smallish roach on my bedroom ceiling. I had a friend over to spend the night. We stared at it, planning its execution. As if it could read my mind, it decided to show me who owned the ceiling. It did not jump. It did not fall. It flew right at me. Screaming, I ran the direction I was facing...which required an Olympic hurdle over my foot board. I didn't quit make it. I landed on the floor, and the roach thought it best to land in my dark hair...eerily a perfect camo for the nasty little beast. Had I been blond, they could have gotten it out sooner. They could have seen it right away and flicked it off. But I am not blond (even though that was the summer of Sun-In), and that night commenced my fear, loathing and paranoia of these nasty, repulsive little monsters.

I generally only had to worry about them in the summer and eventually my parents pulled the juniper bushes from the front of the house, which were rumored to be attractive to roaches. These particular roaches were small, didn't invade cupboards, and just basically liked to fly around terrifying everyone. They liked to live outside. But things were about to take a turn for the worse.

I got married (no, that wasn't the turn for the worse), and we moved into a very cute, "retro" if you will, apartment complex. They were vintage 1940, in an older part of town. Moving day went fine...but then the sun went down. We turned on a movie, watched for a bit, and then I decided to go into the kitchen to get some ice cream. I flipped on the light and there were about 30 roaches, frozen-mid-scurry, all over the floor. In point two seconds, they were just gone. I screamed.

The next morning, as new brides do, I got up at the butt-crack of dawn to make Hubby his lunch to take to work. As we weren't yet unpacked, I had to go into the living room and dig through a big box to find the sandwich baggies. I was pre-Lasik, so I was blind as a bat. As I was diggin through the boxes, I felt something cold on the underside of my poor, poor bare foot. I said to myself, "Gross! I hate when I drop lunch meat and step on it. Ewwww!" So I started kicking my foot to get the meat off, because who wants to touch cold lunch meat on a foot? What fell off my naked foot wasn't turkey-colored. It was black. And the size of a date. But dates aren't allowed in my house (nas-tay). I didn't know what that black thing was because I didn't have my glasses on. I bent down within 3 inches of "It" so my nearly blind eyes could tell me what it was. As it started to come into focus, I saw that it was a big, black, fat roach! Not the little flying kind, the robust-crawled-up-from-the-sewer type. Big, slow and shiny. (How do I type a retching noise?)

I screamed bloody murder, and started running in a manner quite reminiscent of Ferris Bueller's sister when she saw the principal at her doorstep. I ran straight into the bathroom, screaming and crying all the way, turned the water on to "scalding" and scalded my foot. After sufficiently sterilizing my flesh, I ran (screaming and crying still) into my room, jumped on my bed and curled up into a ball, and told my husband to call the landlord, we were moving!

Stay tuned for Part 2 tomorrow.

Why I Hate Wal-Mart

Because our other Leap Pad pen cord was used as a leash to pull the Leap Pad around the house with, I was in the market for a new one. I found them very reasonable at gasp! Wal-Mart. I hate our Wal Mart. I hate it almost as much as I hate cockroaches. (And I do realize I didn't do the cockroach post, but I'm working on it.) The price was $24.88. I was running so very late , so when it rang up at $34.88 I just paid and left with the intention of coming right back for a price adjustment.
When I went back, the WalMart drama began. I was behind a car in the parking lot that had its blinker on for 5 minutes waiting for this other car to back out. Frustrated that I chose this aisle (because my special talent is choosing the wrong lines everywhere I go! Oh, and also having tall people sit in front of me at the movies.), I had no choice but to wait. But, in true Wal Mart fashion, trouble was brewing where parking spaces close to the front are concerned.

Facing our direction was a Kia SUV that had just happened upon the scene and stopped to wait too, but illegally. He was not there first and he did not even have his blinker on. Could he be so rude as to whip in a take the spot of the rightful owner who was waiting an eternity with her butt blinking? YES, he was that rude! He practically flipped the Kia to get it into the spot before the legitimate lady had time to take her foot off the brake.

It didn't end there. The lady actually pulled her car up behind the Kia and jumped out with a hot Mocha in her hand and started charging at the mullet-wearing Kia driver and his passengers. She was screaming and shaking the Mocha so hard I was a bit concerned she might scald her face. (Maybe it was assault with a deadly...or hot...weapon) She continued her banshee act, but Kia-driving-mullet-boy just laughed at her. Then she just got back in her car and went to find another spot.

PEOPLE! (Well, people of my particular town) Do you not realize that we live in redneck-gun-toting territory? This is not LA, but many people here have visible rifles in their vehicles (just in case they see a deer I guess) and a portion of those people are a few sandwiches short of a picnic basket. Albeit, most gun-toters don't drive Kia Sportages. But whatever. (I'm didn't say I wasn't the Drama Queen.)
Nerves shaken, I still proceeded into the Wal-Mart to get my ten bucks back. And, here's the main reason I hate our WM, everybody there was in their "best" pajamas. Hmmm...must be a special occasion. Oh yes, it was the day before Valentines Day. I love a Pajama Party, but with my close friends, not strangers in the Wal Mart. Even though people were shopping for their loved ones, these same people had them in tow and were screaming at these "loved ones", be it child or significant other, as if screaming loud and trashy is going to get the good attention. Those PJ wearin' screamers were buying cheap Sam's choice candy in mass quantities.. I can't take these people seriously; they were wearing the clothes they obviously slept in for the last week. Couldn't they at least upgrade to sweat pants?! I saw them in Woman's World for $2.88. The same price as the Sam's Choice chocolates. I also have seen reasonable prices on bras in Lingerie (if you could call WM undies "lingerie".) Bras are there to help us. Please use them, even under pajamas. If you can't put on a bra to go out in your PJ's, you shouldn't have freshly filled, polished and decorated acrylic fingernails. It sort of defeats the purpose when they are back dropped by dirty pajamas and grungy slippers.

So, making my way to the customer service counter, I tell them they overcharged me $10. They send a girl to go all the way across the store and investigate. Too bad for me that she walked like she was heading to her own execution. I moved to the side and prepared to wait.

You can't help but people watch when you are surrounded by the wierdest people grouped together in one shop-til-you-drop setting. I swear, in 20 minutes three guys came in to take jumbo size diaper packages back and get some money. They seriously all had mullets. They all wore plaid flannel shirts and black Levis. And all the diapers that came in were the same cheap White Cloud brand, with the packaging looking like it had been dragged through the yard by a Kia with a gun rack. I mean, they'd only be getting about $4 back! Suspicious.

Finally, the slow clerk came back after 20 minutes and reported that all of the Leap Pads were indeed $24.99, except for the one I chose. What was the difference?! Electronically, not one thing. Features different? Nope, exactly the same. But the one I chose happened to be green. I sarcastically said, "Isn't that funny, they're all that price, even the pink girly ones, but the green is $10.00 more. Goodbye!"

I left fuming, vowing I' would never step foot back in that store again.

Until I remembered I have pictures waiting for me in Photo...... Oh yeah, and we don't have a Target.

Blogging Can Be a Bio Hazard

I wasn't actually blogging when this all went down. I was reading blogs. I was sitting on the lid of the toilet while The Two Year Old was in the bathtub. I pulled the see thru-ish shower curtain closed so she couldn't wet the laptop with one of her crazy splashing episodes. In fact, she was being quite calm this time (which is always a bad sign). I was so mesmerized by the blog I was reading, that I didn't notice the scratchy/prickly feeling on my right arm. I did notice the Spazzy Two Year Old laughing hysterically, and I thought she was laughing because she was poking my arm with her toy shark.
As moms are talented at ignoring children, I ignored the scratchy poke for about a minute. When I finished reading the particular post, I looked to the right to see what the baby was poking me with.

To my horror, it was this which made contact with my arm:

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek! I screamed and leaped off the toilet, almost threw down the laptop, and grabbed that bio hazard away from her. She was laughing hysterically like a goon. I was saying words loudly like, "Nasty! Icky! Blechy! Poopy! Disgusting!" as I was looking for the holder to put it back. Where was the holder?!

I looked to the left of the toilet where I used to keep it (not now that I know it's within her reach when she's bathing.) It was nowhere to be found. She was shrieking with delight and splashing up a storm behind the shower curtain.
Noooooo, she couldn't have! I ripped back the curtain, only to see Spazzy bathing with the toilet brush holder, in bluish chunky-looking water.

Now in full fledged screaming mode, I yanked her out of the tub, pulled the plug and told her she was now the Bio hazard. I had to sterilize and sanitize myself, the baby and the tub.

But before you think that is the grossest thing you've ever heard, let me relate a story to you that my friend in France told me.

My friend babysat this girl who was at the time of the incident, 3 years old. Anyone who has been to France knows that each and every toilet in that country, in private homes or public toilets, has a toilet brush next to it in its holder and some cleaning agent.

My friend was at a restaurant with the child (who, as a side point, had to be the ugliest child I ever did see, and ugly attitude to match), who had to faire pipi. She took her potty, then as she was washing her own hands, turned to tell the child to "come on", only to see, quel horreur! that she had picked up the toilet brush holder and was gulping the last of the liquid it contained.

As this horror story has never left the forefront of my mind after all these years, I have told it so many times that I just knew something nasty was going to make its way back to me in the form of a payback. (Probably a payback for saying what an ugly child she was).


So the moral of this story? When my child is in the tub, I shall refrain from bringing the laptop in. Blogging can be fun, but also can have some nasty consequences.

I guess I shouldn't complain, after seeing this:

Does He Realize I Just Spent 100 Clams to Save His Life?

Hey! What the? As I'm sitting here in bed with the laptop trying to read morning blogs, Skeeter the Cat just hopped up on me and started kneading my stomach! I may be mistaken, but I have only ever seen him knead big fluffy things; my down comforter and the squishy couch pillows.
Cats are evil.

My First Greek Lesson: Of Mice and Men

My non-Greek mother is learning Greek, and I was at her house today thumbing through her Learn Greek books. I have every intention of starting, but each time I sit down and look at the book, I just see a bunch of jumbled up things like this word I saw today: ποντικός

Oh sure, it looks pretty, but the meaning of this particular word is not pretty to many people with certain phobias. ποντικός is Greek for MOUSE. And as you know, The Mouse of this house had escaped her cage and was running free in the garage. I don't have a phobia of Purchased-at-Petco Mice, but I do of Petco Mice Gone Wild In the garage making babies that will overrun my new house with nasty mice turds and ποντικός germs.

As I mentioned, I was about to "ask myself what a maverick* would do", and then that is what I did. Yes, I let Skeeter and Blueberry (the cats) in the garage to find Licorice the escaped inmate. I let them in, closed the door.... and waited. I kept checking on them every so often. They were definitely hunting. They found the fresh mouse pellets next to the cage (evidence that she was still in there, not taking her freedom out the door when she had the chance). Each time I checked on the cats, I cringed as I opened the door wondering if there would be a dead mouse flung at me the next time I peeked in.

No, they didn't succeed in assasinating Licorice, and I'm glad. I couldn't stomach the fact that I'd hired two hit men, uh, cats, to do a sweet little mouse in. I abandoned my maverick-y* side.

As we were getting in bed two nights ago, Hubby asked if I'd locked the garage door. No. So he got up and went out there. He was taking a long time. He came back and said, "I just saw Licorice! She was standing on the red carpet!" Well she thinks she's important enough not to be murdered, sigh....and so do I. Hubby tried to catch her, but she ran....under the car. I didn't say she was the smartest mouse, having already witnessed the cat/tire incident.

And so yesterday when Hubby was out cleaning the car, he saw Licorice dash past him. He actually caught her this time and put re-incarcerated her. She is officially on lockdown; in the hole. He came running in to tell me the good news. I went out to say hello to Licorice. Um... That was not Licorice!

To be continued...

*SNL reference :)

I Didn't Want to Be a Pet Drama Blogger!

Is anyone sick of the Pet Drama yet, here at Cassoulet Cafe? Well, I certainly am! And it just doesn't quit. So, after the deaths and the vet escapade, there are two new story lines that merit attention.
Blueberry not only gave Skeeter a cold that turned into life threatening pneumonia, but he has now shared the love of what I thought was a facial injury...it's in fact, ringworm.

As I type that word, I have chills going up my spine. No, ringworm isn't an actual worm it is a nasty little fungus....I detest fungus.

Flashback of beauty school, old lady, toenails deformed by fungus so bad that her toenails actually looked like a small tree branches. I was retching and vowing never to do another pedicure the rest of my life, and it did not look dissimilar to this awful mess.
I hope you had your lunch already. Sorry for the visual, but I am one who cannot suffer alone.

So, The Twelve Year Old now has three ringworms on her legs. We're putting clear nail polish on them, as per Yahoo Answers. We'll see. My entire body is itching, convinced I'm covered in ringworms, but I have yet to find one. (And don't even mention the word "lice" to me, or my head will start spontaneously itching and I'll run to the mirror ten thousand times today to check my hair).


When we got the cats, we put the only surviving rodent pet into the garage. Secretly hoping she'd kick the bucket too, but she kept on keepin' on. Two nights ago, as I drove into the garage, I saw a mouse in the bag of trash that I had set out there (not making it to the can yet) I started screaming for Husband to come help! When he came out he started lecturing me, "That's what happens when you just toss the trash bag out here!" I was ticked, since taking the trash out is his job, but horrified that it had actually brought about a mouse! When he walked closer he said, "Hey, that's Licorice! How did she get out of her cage?!" Hmmphh...see, I didn't bring wild mice in with my procrastination!


He put her back in the cage, but yesterday morning when I went out to the garage to load the kids in the car to go to school, The Six Year Old started laughing hysterically and said, "Licorice is out of her cage and sitting behind the tire of the car!" Was she trying to commit suicide, because I'm sure she saw the whole thing go down with Suki last month. She knows I can rid the house of pets with the press of the gas pedal. We tried catching her, but she ran. When I got home, there she was, near the cage, but not in it. Being that the kids were gone....and being that they do not read my blog...I will admit what I did: I opened the garage door, went inside the house, locked the door, and waited.


The official story is that Licorice either escaped (true) or just has a new nest inside the garage (OH. MY......what for Pete's Sake was I thinkingggggggggg?) I left the cage door open in case she wanted to turn herself in. It still sits empty. Duh. And as I am The Great Procrastinator and talented in denial when I don't want to face an ugly truth, I stopped thinking about Licorice breeding in the garage.....

....that is, until I read this post this morning: The Creature From the Garage Loft.

So, I will be sitting here on my bed, trying to come up with a plan, and I think it may involve a mouse trap or letting, gulp, the cats in the garage. Licorice was a good mouse, but let's face it, when Mice Go Wild we need not fear getting all maverick-y to protect our turf.

Who's with me?

How To Remove Stubborn Greek Hair

I hate waxing. Each time I do it, it breaks me out. But I hate my unwanted hairs too. I was saying this to my friend from Iran (who has perfect eyebrows) and she said, "Why don't you do it the way we do in my country?" The way they do it is called in English, threading. She didn't have any string with her, and wasn't explaining it well enough for me to understand what in the world a piece of string could do for my moustache and eyebrows. (Oh yeah, let's not forget the one, thick, black chin hair that pops out overnight).
So I went to YouTube and found this video:


I was ecstatic! After playing around with some thread, and then finally having my dear friend show me how she does it, I think I have mastered the Art of Threading. This Greek Girl now is facial-hair-free at all times, and no pesky after-waxing zits replacing the mustache.

I urge everyone to try threading themselves, and let me know how it turns out!

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Vet...

Did I happen to mention my cat drama yet? Oh yes, I know I have, but it's worth mentioning again and again. Because it doesn't stop in this household, for some unknown reason. Skeeter, our kitty that survived the wheel of my minivan last month, seemed to be practically dying this morning when I got up. He didn't come running out of the laundry room with Blueberry, the new cat. When I looked at him, his mouth was open and he was wheezing. His eyes were drippy, and he was lethargic.
So, I went to pack him up in his box, and found out that my husband, who always throws away the wrong things and keeps the things I want to be rid of, hit again. He threw away the two cat boxes last week that I have been saving since July.
Skeeter is really docile and cuddly, never scratches or wriggles. So I put him in a topless box, and headed down the road about 2 hours ago. He jumped out and ran under my foot. I pulled over, picked him up, and tried to hold him while I was driving....something I yell at other people for within my own soundproof vehicle. I could have kept hold of him if his breath didn't have the kind of green fumes you only see on cartoons. I gasped and let him go. He ran under the back seat.
I arrived at the vet, got out of the car, called Skeeter, and realized there was no way he was coming out. I just started unbuckling The Toddler when Skeeter made a mad dash out the door. Lickety split, I was down on him like a rat on a Cheeto, as hubby likes to say when he needs to make me laugh.
Only, Skeeter was determined to get away. Five feet away from where we were was the main road through town with non-stop traffic careening by. I was determined I was not going to have to tell my kids I was responsible for another feline flattening. So, the only thing I could grab was Skeeter's tail. As I was grabbing for it desperately, I flew head first onto the pavement, to the horror of many passersby and the entire waiting room at the vet's office. I was on the ground, screaming Toddler strapped in the car seat, and holding onto my cat's tail for dear life, completely mortified at my position. I hid in the car for a few minutes, mustered up enough pride to get up and into the waiting room.
Hearing that the cat was open-mouth breathing, they rushed out to the car and got him, and brought him immediately into an exam room. The doctor said he has a severe case of pneumonia, and that I should get a feline AIDS/Leukemia test as well. I asked him if Skeeter has either, would he have to be put down? He said yes, or make him live in a bubble. I said, "Let's just treat the pneumonia, my kids cannot handle another cat death."
Meanwhile, I averted another death in the exam room. As we were waiting for the doctor to come back, The Lightening Fast Toddler (and I do not exaggerate), grabbed my keys out of my purse, found an outlet, and was 1 centimeter away from plunging a key into it.

Shocked that my bill was $105, I paid and started to walk outside. Skeeter went kuh-razeeeee, and pulled out every claw that he'd managed to get the Soft Paws off of, and dig them wildly into my neck flesh and arms, while the back leg claws ripped to shreds the plastic sack I was carrying full of his expensive meds. I dropped The Toddler's hand out of sheer pain, and then screamed because a truck was backing up and she is FAST. It seemed like minutes, but really only micro seconds, that I realized that I had to let Skeeter go (which meant certain death) so I could hang on to The Toddler.

Right then, a very caring young couple sprang out of their car and rushed to my aid. I never, ever ask for help with my kids from a stranger, but I was almost in tears and asked the girl to hold my toddler's hand. The guy got Skeeter and held his paws in a way that calmed him right down, and helped me get my crew loaded.

I flipped the box upside down on top of Skeeter, angry at him for making a potential situation a hazard to my child. No, it's not his fault, it's mine for not going and purchasing a cat carrier before I took him to the vet. But I just wanted to get him there before he got any sicker.

I'm home now, still shaking, and unable to do any of my errands I've already put off way past due.

Maybe I'm not cut out to be a pet owner.