Tuesday, July 10, 2012

rats. or mice, whatever.

so the other day, right? I'm having a highly intellectual argument with my roommate re: why I should let Simba sleep with me in bed at night, rather than in his crate (really, it wasn't an argument. More like me trying to justify the decision to myself, you know? I do that a lot).

I finally make the decision to sleep with him every night because (1) he's teeny tiny and won't grow much more (2) he doesn't have any accidents where peeing is concerned (3) we both sleep much better when we cuddle during naps than when he's hysterical in his crate at night (4) I want to sleep with him forever and ever because he's so cute and comforting

Weeeell. I thought, you know, I'd get a wee wee pad for him and place it right next to my bed in case he had to go in the middle of the night, because who wants to wake up with a puddle next to their head (or worse, pee in their eyes. That must sting)?

As I'm about to grab the bag of wee wee pads, I see a freaking mouse. Running away. In my room. And then I saw it AGAIN.

Cue: my roommate and I shrieking, screaming, crying, painting our nails to relieve our anxiety, hiding in Simba's doggie pen, holding on to Simba for dear life because obviously a three pound dog can totally protect us, calling every single 24 hour exterminator in New York City (none of which was really 24 hours, by the way)...

Ugh. So now in addition to worrying about being a bad puppy mom, I have to worry about a mouse eating Simba (hey, no one said my fears were rational). That's just peachy.

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