Thursday, May 20, 2010
This too shall pass
I would like to be writing more, but it has been a hard spring. Just hard in a lot of ways, a lot of things to worry about. I have been letting such strange things fall through the cracks--emails unanswered, chores undone, all of that. Writing in the blog goes on that list.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
New rats ahoy!
There's always something weird in my life, and for the past few years one of the top contenders has been my status as a foster home for a rat rescue.
Yes, rats. Yes, they get rescued. Yes, they need foster homes.
Name a pet, you can probably find someone who runs an organization dedicated to saving them when their owners can't or won't keep them any longer. Rattus Norvegicus is no exception. In the case of many animals, a foster home is just a nicer alternative to a shelter. But in rat rescue, foster homes are a necessity. That's because rats--especially those coming into rescue--tend to carry upper respiratory infections that are very contagious to other rats, and are a real pain in the butt to treat. Bring one sick rat into your house, and you could end up having to treat every single rat you own. Therefore, all rats who come into a rat rescue really must be quarantined, preferably in a home with no other rats, until it's determined that they have no contagious illnesses--or have been successfully treated for them.
That's where I come in. Our abode is a stopping place, a temporary home while rats go through quarantine.
I've always liked animals, and when I was a kid our house was home to a cat, three dogs, and a rotating menagerie of things like chameleons, gerbils, fish, mud puppies, and a rat. For awhile, I thought I wanted to be a veterinarian, and my job through high school was working in the kennels of our family vet. I changed my mind, and I have no interest in having a mini-zoo as an adult, but I did welcome the opportunity to temporarily house needy animals. So, boom, I'm a rat rescue foster home.
Right now, our local rat rescue has a group of rats who have just come up from Dayton, OH. Their next stop is our house, and they're coming tonight. I will have them for about three weeks, trying to socialize them and treating whatever illnesses they are harboring, and naturally reforming them from any Buckeye fan leanings they may have. I get the privilege of naming them, too, something I always enjoy.
Yes, rats. Yes, they get rescued. Yes, they need foster homes.
Name a pet, you can probably find someone who runs an organization dedicated to saving them when their owners can't or won't keep them any longer. Rattus Norvegicus is no exception. In the case of many animals, a foster home is just a nicer alternative to a shelter. But in rat rescue, foster homes are a necessity. That's because rats--especially those coming into rescue--tend to carry upper respiratory infections that are very contagious to other rats, and are a real pain in the butt to treat. Bring one sick rat into your house, and you could end up having to treat every single rat you own. Therefore, all rats who come into a rat rescue really must be quarantined, preferably in a home with no other rats, until it's determined that they have no contagious illnesses--or have been successfully treated for them.
That's where I come in. Our abode is a stopping place, a temporary home while rats go through quarantine.
I've always liked animals, and when I was a kid our house was home to a cat, three dogs, and a rotating menagerie of things like chameleons, gerbils, fish, mud puppies, and a rat. For awhile, I thought I wanted to be a veterinarian, and my job through high school was working in the kennels of our family vet. I changed my mind, and I have no interest in having a mini-zoo as an adult, but I did welcome the opportunity to temporarily house needy animals. So, boom, I'm a rat rescue foster home.
Right now, our local rat rescue has a group of rats who have just come up from Dayton, OH. Their next stop is our house, and they're coming tonight. I will have them for about three weeks, trying to socialize them and treating whatever illnesses they are harboring, and naturally reforming them from any Buckeye fan leanings they may have. I get the privilege of naming them, too, something I always enjoy.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Well it's Monday all right
Today my son had a doctor's appointment. It was a follow-up appointment from an earlier one this year, but I could not remember if it was the follow-up to the visit whose theme was "Maybe it's time we stopped being so reactive about his mild, intermittent asthma and get a treatment plan" versus the follow-up to "Let's make sure he's just a normal twitchy kid and not neurologically problematic." I really don't take him to the doctor much, but this year was unique in that we've addressed a couple of meta-health things, and for the life of me I wasn't sure what this appointment was for. FAIL at motherhood.
Then, on our way to school, I see a squirrel darting out into the street, well ahead of us. He pauses in the middle of the road, and I groan inwardly. Is he going to stay there? Dash back and possibly be squished by the oncoming car? Dash onward and possibly be squished by me? I slow a little, but wouldn't you know it, that furry little moron zigged right under my wheels. I didn't feel a thud or thump but I knew. I just knew.
I wish the squirrel were the only moron in this scenario, but sadly there was another one: Me. I looked in my rear-view mirror and cried out in dismay when I saw his flattened body. I don't think the kid would have noticed if it weren't for my self-castigation. Worse yet, I narrated thoughts like "Oh my god is his tail twitching? That's not the wind, I think his tail is still twitching. It's bad enough I hit him, but if I didn't kill him and he's suffering that's AWFUL...." Mind you, I am saying this OUT LOUD. Then I look back at my poor tender-hearted son and he is curling up around the seatbelt and starting to cry. He cried all the way to school. FAIL AGAIN.
I'm one of those people who LIKES squirrels. I felt bad all morning. And what a start to my son's day.
For the record, on my way to the office I drove by the scene of the vehicular rodentslaughter and the squirrel was clearly (and thoroughly) dead. Either by me or a car which followed in my wake. So if he suffered, it doesn't look like it could have been for long. Sigh.
Then, on our way to school, I see a squirrel darting out into the street, well ahead of us. He pauses in the middle of the road, and I groan inwardly. Is he going to stay there? Dash back and possibly be squished by the oncoming car? Dash onward and possibly be squished by me? I slow a little, but wouldn't you know it, that furry little moron zigged right under my wheels. I didn't feel a thud or thump but I knew. I just knew.
I wish the squirrel were the only moron in this scenario, but sadly there was another one: Me. I looked in my rear-view mirror and cried out in dismay when I saw his flattened body. I don't think the kid would have noticed if it weren't for my self-castigation. Worse yet, I narrated thoughts like "Oh my god is his tail twitching? That's not the wind, I think his tail is still twitching. It's bad enough I hit him, but if I didn't kill him and he's suffering that's AWFUL...." Mind you, I am saying this OUT LOUD. Then I look back at my poor tender-hearted son and he is curling up around the seatbelt and starting to cry. He cried all the way to school. FAIL AGAIN.
I'm one of those people who LIKES squirrels. I felt bad all morning. And what a start to my son's day.
For the record, on my way to the office I drove by the scene of the vehicular rodentslaughter and the squirrel was clearly (and thoroughly) dead. Either by me or a car which followed in my wake. So if he suffered, it doesn't look like it could have been for long. Sigh.
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