The Third Shit

One day, back when I still lived in Sweden, I was blobbed out in front of the telly, watching...er, whatever's on Channel 5 right before Third Watch. CSI, maybe. Dead body, dead body, dead body, commercial break--and between the dead bodies and the commercial break, that little screen which tells you what's on for the rest of the evening. It said:

7:00 - CSI

9:30 - Vänner

This was funny because of the typo: Third Watch is meant to be called "The Third Shift" in Sweden, but there was an "f" missing, so it really said "The Third Shit".

There are two reasons I bring up this bizarre little episode, so long after the fact:

1) I had completely forgotten about it till now.

2) Sitting in the vet's office this morning, nose held as far as possible from my reeking rat, I realized that today had, in fact, marked the third shit. Stella's third shit on my floor, that is. To her credit, she did try and run back to her cage this time, but she didn't even come close. In fact, it would've been much better if she'd stayed where she was. That way, I wouldn't have spent the afternoon scrubbing a three-foot streak of rodent diarrhea out of my carpet. It would only have been one foot, but she had to drag her damn tail through the original mess, thus extending it significantly.

Looked at in a more metaphorical light, it's also Lady Luck's third shit of the month, on my unfortunate head. First shit: thoroughly unwarranted inspection by landlord, necessitating two-week cleaning spree. Second shit: first trip to the vet's. Third shit: this.

This time, I was having half a panic attack before I even got to the vet's. The memory of the vomiting cat was still fresh in my head, but that wasn't the problem. Wee Stella actually looked quite ill this time, curled up and whimpering in the corner of her travel cage. To make matters worse, I'd just paid my telephone and cable bills, bringing my Visa balance up to $4,827, and my chequing balance down to $16.92. If Stella needed anything more than a quick glucose shot to replenish her electrolytes and so forth--especially if she needed antibiotics--my Visa would get declined, and I'd have no choice but to write a cheque. Then, my chequing account would get overdrawn, and I'd be charged a $25 fee for the overdraft.

"You had to eat that Turkish Delight, didn't you?", I murmured, peering sadly into Stella's cage.

"What?" said the cab driver.

"Nothing. I was talking to my rat."

He gave me one of those "Whoa...crazy lady!" looks in the rearview mirror. I beetled my brows theatrically, in one of those "Whoa, fuck you!" looks. While I was busy glaring, the cabbie took the long way round, using the Burrard bridge instead of the Granville one, and increasing my fare by approximately $3. (I decreased his tip by a corresponding amount, so he was the loser in the end. I also waved Stella's cage around more than I really needed to on my way out, in hopes of spreading her unholy stench through the cab. I am a vengeful and unpleasant person.)

When I got to the vet's, nobody else was there. I went to a different vet this time, because I wasn't happy about the last guy. He barely looked at Stella, probably because she kept trying to bite him. She's a scary little thing, I'll give him that, but that was $100 I spent so I could be sent home with a sick animal still on my hands.

Today's vet, although rather more thorough, was a little strange. He didn't address me directly once, speaking instead to Stella.

"Feeling a little poorly today, are we?", he wheedled, lifting her out of her cage. To my utter astonishment, Stella didn't struggle or bite.

"She's been having diarrhea," I said. "She got into some candy last week, some Turkish Delight, and she's had it three times since then. I think she's dehydrated."

"You do look a little parched," he told Stella, poking her in the belly. By some miracle, she still didn't go in for the bite.

"I was wondering if you could give her some glucose? You know, a shot? To puff her back up?"

"Yes, I can get some fluids in you. What else have you been eating, besides candy?"

"Well, she's been a little picky lately--more so than usual, that is. She's been having fruits and vegetables, some rice, some oatmeal, and scrambled eggs with tomatoes mixed in. The other vet told me to get these special lab blocks for her, but she wouldn't touch them."

"Is there any chance you got into something rotten?"

"Well, she does try to hoard stuff in her nest, but I take out anything perishable every night, and I cleaned her cage just a day or two ago. And the rest of what she eats, I eat too, so if it had gone off, I'd be ill too."

"And how much fruit are you having?"

"One meal a day is usually fruit--this week, it's lychees in syrup, pineapple slices, and tangerines. I give her that in the morning, and then she gets rice or vegetables for dinner."

"That's a lot of sugar for you, isn't it?" He stopped poking, flipped her onto her feet, and started stroking her back. I watched in awe. "How does fruit every second day sound, and a little plate of vegetables the rest of the time? Carrots and tomatoes, maybe a little lettuce?"

"Er...that sounds good. So, you think it's the--LOOK OUT!"

That was when Stella finally snapped out of her daze and tried to take a bite out of the vet. She missed by a mile, though. That guy was fast. If it had been me, she'd have got in a good one.

"You'll be fine," he informed Stella, taking her by the scruff of the neck to give her an intramuscular fluid injection. "Just cut down on the sugars, and not too many green vegetables all at once."

I fidgeted uncomfortably, hating the vet talking to Stella, and embarrassed at having fed her too much sugar. I resolved to stop buying canned fruit, and start ordering it fresh. All that preservative syrup, that must be where the sugar's coming from. Giant rats are supposed to eat fruit, after all.

The charge was $80 this time--not too bad. It leaves me just enough to pay this month's eBay bill and buy a few apples and bananas. I've got to pay my BC Health bill too, of course. I never did end up paying that, and now it's grown. I've just deposited a cheque for $280: I can pay off the health bill with that. That's $216, which, after counting the $16 I've already got in the bank, leaves me eighty dollars. I can put that on my Visa bill, and get some groceries in. I'm tired of eating rice or noodles for every meal. I ran out of plum sauce last night, and I've been out of canned tomatoes since last week. What a boring diet!

I was supposed to get $500 for a book cover next month, but the publication date's been pushed back indefinitely, so I don't know when I'm getting that any more. I'm waiting for a hundred dollars for some work I did back in January, too--can't imagine what's happened to that. Then, there's a couple of hundred for a handful of spot illustrations I did over the last couple of weeks. That, I should get any day now. The publisher seems trustworthy, and he said the cheque was on its way. And there's always eBay, although sales have been down lately, thanks to restructuring of their search engine to favour featured listings (which, of course, cost more than my prints sell for).

To make matters worse, the owner of my apartment is thinking of selling it. According to the fine print on my lease (which I failed to read), he can turf me out in August, although I signed on for two years. So, on top of my existing financial woes, I may have to shell out for yet another move. That's two months' rent and the obligatory security deposit I'd have to scrape together. Unbelievable! Maybe I'll get one of those cheaparsed studio flats across from Madame Cleo's. Nothing like living in the middle of the red-light district to raise one's spirits. Hey, if I needed some extra cash, I could pick up tricks right on my doorstep! (Groan.)

On a more upbeat note, Stella seems to be feeling better now. She has just torn the electrician's tape off her water-bottle, which I put there after she bit through it and spilled water all over the floor. There is now water on the floor again, but I don't care, as long as Stella's all right.

And, to conclude, a completely random observation: if I were ever to form a rock band, it would be called Super Giant Rat Nards. Fortunately for an unsuspecting world, the likelihood of my ever forming a rock band is remote.