Nomadic Nurse Diaries

Dear Dead Animal Gods,

You win. I officially tap out. Let me walk you through the trauma I recently endured while pet-sitting for a friend. Spoiler: it involved dead animals, a Swiffer sweeper (#notsponsored), and enough squealing to fill a horror movie.

So, a little backstory. Last week, I was hanging out at my friend’s house, and we were talking about her cats. You know, those adorable fluffballs that bring “presents” home? Well, my friend told me that her cats were skilled hunters, frequently delivering small dead animals to her doorstep like it was some kind of morbid Amazon Prime delivery service. I, of course, laughed it off because surely that wouldn’t happen while I was watching them, right? Oh, the foreshadowing.

Fast forward to present day. I was tasked with feeding the cats, topping off their water, and, oh yeah, doing some laundry and grabbing a quick shower. Seemed simple enough. I entered her house, and my nose was immediately assaulted by an odor that I can only describe as death. And there, on the carpet foyer, were the culprits: a dead baby bunny and a very dead rat. I. Screamed. Yes, literally screamed.

At this point, the cats—those little murderers—looked up at me proudly, like they were expecting me to congratulate them for a job well done. I, on the other hand, began pacing and muttering expletives like I was in a bad sitcom. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t even get near the poor baby animals. I thought, “Okay, I’ll just text my friend. She’ll understand.”

I texted her, expecting sympathy, maybe even a “Don’t worry, I’ll handle it when I get back.” Instead, what I got was a guilt trip. “Oh, come on, you’re a corrections nurse! And you’re an army vet—how can you be freaked out by this?” Um, bitch, these are dead animals. I don’t see how my work experience is supposed to make me some kind of dead-animal removal expert!

So, after about two hours of pacing and talking myself up like I was about to skydive out of a plane, I finally convinced myself to find a dust pan and broom. Except there wasn’t a broom. I resorted to a Swiffer sweeper (#notsponsored) to do the dirty work. My genius plan was to somehow get the animals onto the dust pan without getting closer than five feet.

First up: the bunny. I chucked the dust pan next to it, taking great care to maintain my distance, and had to flip the bunny onto it with the Swiffer. Success! But—morbid alert—there was mystery fluid under it. Cue the dry heaving.

All the while, I’m squealing, gagging, and convincing myself that this is why women don’t need to be “strong and independent.” Honestly, if having a boyfriend means never doing this again, sign me up.

Next was the rat, who had hit full-on rigor mortis. Perfect. Just perfect. I flipped it onto the dust pan, but of course, as I pushed the dust pan toward the back door, the whole thing flipped over on the rug, sending the dead animals flying. More screaming, more gagging, and—because the universe loves irony—more Swiffering the bodies back onto the dust pan.

Finally, I reached the door, but the real kicker was the door jam. I couldn’t just push the dead animals over it with the Swiffer. No, I had to pick up the dust pan with my bare hands. VOMIT. I chucked the dust pan and the Swiffer out the door like they were on fire and bolted.

But wait—it gets better. I texted my friend to inform her that the animals were now out of the house. She should be thrilled, right? Wrong. She had the audacity to ask me to put them in a garbage bag! Girl, NO. Absolutely not. I promptly responded, “The carcasses are outside. Throw your Swiffer and dust pan away.”

So yeah, consider me officially traumatized.

Until next time (which, let’s be real, won’t involve dead animals),
Your Traumatized Nomadic Nurse