Laboratories and a guinea pig named Crust

Oh, how the days are snailing themselves along. This is the last week of classes before Christmas. That means that if you don’t count exams and papers that need writing and all that crap, the x-mas holidays have almost begun. My only problem at the moment, is that some evil troll has apparently come up from below and magiced every hour to be twice as long as it’s supposed to. That’s just not right. I should be the only evil troll in this storybook, dammit.

At the moment we’re doing our very last intensive lab course in microbiology. They let us mess around with DNA. I have come to the conclusion that I’ve really got the makings of a mad/evil scientist, seeing how I would luuuuve to muck around with my own DNA. That’s the first sign: willingness to be your own guinea pig.

I used to have a guinea pig when I was a kid. I named it Skorpa, which is Hellholish for Crust. Crust was…well…psychotic, to be completely hones. She had her own outdoor area, from which she would try to launch attacks on the neighbour’s cat. It’s a good thing Crusty spent most of her time behind bars.

Memory lane is an interesting place. Jupp-jupp.

I thought I saw a pussycat

Last night was fairly… interesting. I’d left my bedroom window open the night before, because I like oxygen when I sleep. But then I decided to go close it before I went to bed, because I’d rather not wake up to discover that my tits have turned into ice cubes.
So up the winding stairs I went, treading very carefully. You see, they’re kinda dark, and I almost kill myself on them yearly, on average. Since I’ve now reached mid-November without injury, I figure that my number is probably coming up.

In my room, I shifted the mosquito net (I also leave Christmas decorations out until August) a bit to the side, and pulled the window closed. Just as I was doing this, something black and far too big to be a mouse shot out from under the bed and out the door.

“I thought I saw a pussycat,” I thought.

Seconds later, a large screech, followed by a great deal of hysterical barking, could be heard from the living-room.

“I did. I did see a pussycat,” I thought.

As I entered the hallway, there was more screeching, barking and general madness. The neighbour’s cat sat on top of my piano, balancing on a gigantic stack of sheetmusic, while my dog, trying to get at the cat, clambered away at the keys, both of them screaming at each other like maniacs. It sounded a bit like the choir they had at my elementary school. Apparently, the animal had climbed up the tree outside my window and made it's way through the window.

It was obvious that the relatively large cat on top of a stack of papers, would eventually be defeated by gravity. It needed a way out. Preferably a way that didn’t go through the dog’s digestive system. So I opened the veranda door, and the cat blasted through it like a bullet, sending sheetmusic flying in all directions. Unfortunately, so did the dog.

I didn’t want the dog to eat our neighbour’s cat. I actually think there’s a law against letting your dog do stuff like that. Neither did I want it to stand outside, late at night, barking its head off. So I did the only thing I could have done – I sat down by the piano and played the “Maple Leaf Rag”.

You see, my dog has a very strange reaction to that particular piece of music. It’s kinda like Roger Rabbit and the old “shave and a haircut” trick. Whenever she hears it, she has got to stand by the piano and howl. This need far outweighs the need to devour passing felines.

Sure enough, the dog came bolting through the door and started to wail. By the time she remembered her cat-sized snack, the door was closed.

After all – you can put a cat in the oven, but that doesn’t make it a biscuit. Or something along those lines.