Drats, rats!

I make these plans.
They're not ambitious. Go to Walmart. Get some chicken. Pay a bill. Work on my book.
And then I lose an entire afternoon because I am on the phone looking for a veterinarian who will see a...
rat.

Because our ginger rat is sick today. I'm not going to go into symptoms because it's a sick rat and let's just not. But she is. And I didn't want her to be uncomfortable.

So I got to spend an hour in the waiting room at the vet, holding a rat. Everyone else traipsed in with a dog or a cat and there I was, nursing a rat. Getting the image?
And then $100 later I am spooning antibiotics and Chinese herbs into a ... rat.
I know- it's crazy.  But crazy or not, I have a sick rat.
And don't think I'm soft or unrealistic. I know rats die. I know they are rodents. And I would be so much stronger if it weren't for those little squeaks and the huge, dark eyes that look so sad.

Oh, did you think I meant the beady little rat eyes? Because I didn't.
I meant these eyes.

They are dangerous. This critter should have come with a warning label. I am thinking of offering her to the FBI.
What's that? That guy won't crack? If the hot lights don't work, just send in my Dancer.
She has me trying to clot blood with an ancient Asian remedy and it involves a syringe, honey, me, and a... rat.
And there is only one thing left to say about my lost afternoon, worried girls and empty wallet.
Oh rats!