My friend agreed to pet-sit while we’re on vacation. Very kind. Very generous. Deeply underinformed.

What should have been a quick walkthrough turned into an hour-and-a-half briefing on inmate transfers, restricted zones, medication resistance, protective custody, yard privileges, toilet paper removal, and Edgar’s known priors.

I did not mean to train an apprentice warden.

But here we are.

After battling giant fire ant beds in the yard, I thought I was solving one problem. Then Boof decided to lick the ant poison, because apparently eating random household objects was no longer enough of a challenge.

What followed was trembling, an emergency vet visit, a full-body guilt spiral, and the realization that I am now fully trapped in my Pet Wrangling Era. Boof is home, medicated, unstable, and deeply loved. I, meanwhile, have a migraine and would like to crawl under my bed for three business days.

Please pray for Boof.

And possibly for me.

Edgar’s prison sentence has turned into feline rehabilitation, and against all odds, it seems to be helping. Meanwhile, Boof has entered her roaming era, Mr. Darcy is still being ambushed by a kitten with no conscience, and I have begun threatening baths without actually giving them because I enjoy living. Small wins, bigger losses.