Behind Bars

I am a sucker for some big blue eyes. As evidenced each time I let a certain pair of blue eyes sucker me into having yet another squalling bundle of baby shit and future hostile teenager. But this time, my fondness for baby blues and the owners attached to them, delivered me not another child, but more pea brained pets.

I could handle one pet. Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog. Ever. Four little legs and one over active bladder. Within months a year we had the bladder problem resolved. I only had to strap on a diaper a couple times. How's that for progress?

Then, in a moment of monumental stupidity and grief-induced weakness, I brought home Abe and Lester. Otherwise known as the fucking birds. It's been nothing but flying feathers, birdshit bombs and swooping chickens intent on plucking out my eyes ever since.

My own little Prison Break stars routinely escape to taunt poor Nixon. They sit on the edge of his food bowl, whispering words of challenge in their bird speak and then fly out of reach just as the poor dog lunges at them. I can hear them cackling all the way to their cage.

Still, I could handle all the wildlife under my roof, until last week. When the daughter's big blue eyes suckered me into buying her hamsters for her birthday. Not just one, but two little shitting rats in my home.

All of a sudden we have two hamsters, each in their little plastic balls rolling across the floor running for their lives from Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, Ever. who is intent on having himself a hamster snack. Followed closely by Abe and Lester, my facking birds who find great delight in swooping in and shitting everywhere. Followed closely by Fric and Frac who are trying to make sure Nixon doesn't have a ham sandwich or a chicken finger; the rats er hamsters don't escape their plastic havens and run into the furnace ducts; and the facking birds don't fly into the window or behead themselves with the ceiling fan.

My house, the neighbourhood zoo. Complete with freaks and a sideshow.

Come on over, admission is free if you bring a bottle of red...

Turns out, those little rats were the straws that broke this mother's back. I set out to win back control of my house. But only after I stepped in something wet. And then a step later, something warm. Turns out, those plastic rat balls in which your rodent can freely roam the confines of it's enviroment have breathing holes. Toilet holes, really.

Like dealing with pigeon shit was fun. Now my darling children expected me to cope with rat crap? I don't fucking think so, my lovelies.

Vowing this would be the last time I wiped crap off my feet, I rallied for war. Short of nuking all animals less than ten inches tall (no, I'm positive that is chicken in your soup. I made it myself, darling. Snicker.) I had to find a more acceptable, more responsible way of handling the situation with out hearing the inevitable "I told you so's" from my dickhead darling husband.

Three hours later the war was won.

Escape this henhouse, chickens.

Ha ha ha, I jeered into their cage. No longer will you be able to shit on my lamp shades. No longer will you be able to taunt my dog. Alright, so it's too bad you can't escape to eat the rats, but you probably never would have eaten the smelly critters anyways. I'll forgive you. Best of all, no longer will you swoop down and try to yank my boob ring from my naked body as I lie sleeping.


However, this posed a problem. What do I do with a slightly used birdcage?

Think woman, think.

I wonder if the hubs would fit...