Back in the day when I was still a nice person, I agreed to live with Bunnie. 250 lbs of pure dump and frump in a compact 4’9” boulder-like physique. With breasts the sizes of honeydews, feet like cinder blocks, and leg hair so long and bristly it would make a Geico caveman feel feminine. Not surprisingly, when eating she sounded like a zombie sucking the marrow from its prey.
Nicknamed “Bunnie,” not for her furry loveable self, but because of her pet rabbit that roamed the apartment and shit in a litterbox (or on the floor) in our living room. Due to his straw bed and leafy greens dumped on our carpet regularly, our apartment smelled like a barn.
Bunnie also had a pet rat (caged), which wasn’t mentioned until move-in day when she let it run from the cage, up her arm, and around her tree-trunk neck, draping its long skinny tail like a silk ribbon across her.
About a month after she moved in, I made a joke about the rat and she mentioned it died (hooray!). Three weeks after that, as I was making some tacos, I reached for my frozen hamburger patties only to touch something frozen wrapped in a washcloth. Hrm. Was it? Could it be? Ick.
Our schedules didn’t coincide for about a week (at this point, the questionable frozen lump had been in the freezer for four weeks) when I finally brought up the potential frozen corpse.
She said that yes, indeed, it was her dead pet rat and she had been trying to find a proper burial ground for him. In a slightly high-pitched squeak, I calmly requested she “get on that” and take care of it over the weekend.
Yes, that’s right. My delicious frozen treats were side-by-side a frozen rodent.
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