Worm and Strawberry Compote

Well saints be praised, sing ye damn chorus of heavenly host and break out the bourbon, Gwendolyn (pictured to the left) finally ate. All the grotesque red wiggler earthworms I so carefully picked out of their dirt and rinsed off in the pasta colander last night for her were gone this morning. I couldn't find them anywhere, so I know that they just didn't wriggle out of their little realistic rock-like dish and vanish under the repti-carpet.

For three freaking weeks, this little shit has given me ulcers by refusing to eat even those foods that turtle experts swore were "completely irresistable and sure to please even the pickiest eater!" Fuckers. I had to pick through half dead, stinky waxworms, mix strawberries and dog food and buy the most expensive lean ground beef in the store (that was covered in tiny white bugs after being in her cage for a half hour) and she still wouldn't eat a damn bit of it (not that I blame her about the raw beef). I soaked her in warm (not hot) water, took her into the sun, gave her dirt (the recommended mixture of Repti-Bark and sterile, organic potting soil) in which to bury herself, took a heat lamp from the snakes (poor babies), broke flowerpots to make a hide....everything the INTERNET and my book from the good people at The Herpetological Library told me to do .

So, after all this and still no mangiare, I took her to the vet. Supposedly, even though I fastidiously followed bit of advice on how to basically create South Carolina in a box, it turns out that our meticulously constructed Rubbermaid Bin of Happiness was a festering death trap, or so the vet told me. And then I paid her $50. I was a little indignant, however. I mean, we rescued this little poop from a third grade classroom, where she had lived her life in a TEN GALLON AQUARIUM! That's the tenth level of hell if ever there was one. We took her in to have her beak and claws trimmed as they were horrifically overgrown and gave her a heater AND EVERYTHING, and still, we were obviously evil hacks trying to give our little crunchy racoon snack a hearty case of shell rot. Sigh. So, we did everything the vet said and she finally ate the vilest food we could give her. As long as I don't have to raise maggots, though, I'm grateful. That was next on the list. What a girl who can't have mammals will do.

We had another momentous pet occasion this week when we acquired Constanze (a name of my thinking), a nine-month-old Pacific Parrotlet, and a cuter little wielder of beak-related injuries you could never find. Now, I'm a total sucker for exotics and will probably end up being eaten by a reticulated python I rescued from someones basement, but I can't stand the idea of a little thing like 'Stanze in the hands of some hack who will feed her only seed and cause her to pluck out all of her feathers. I'm now, of course, going to spend several hundred of our hard earned dollars on a new cage, new toys, etc. because anything that's in my house has to look like either furniture or other pleasing objet d'art. I don't want some crappy wire cage ruining my aesthetic. This is the cage of my dreams:


$900 is a bit steep, however.

'Stanze is a bit of a snot at this point, but I will train this little green ball of fury if it kills me. She bites and is terrified senseless if I try to pick her up, but once in my hand she'll roll her head over to allow me to scratch her neck. It just about gave me a stroke for the cuteness the first time I saw it. I want a pet that has a higher brain function than a grape, dammit, so she will learn to hop on my pink finger when I put it in her cage. I mean, I love me my herps, but God, are they stupid; sweet, but dumb, like so many people I've known. This bird carries all of my hopes for pet-given companionship. Poor little thing. I shall shop tonight and she shall be speaking by Monday, so help me.