A little while ago, I was in the vet's office. The cat I adopted three days ago, who only has three feet and I'm already in love with, is sick and about have X-rays. I was on the phone with the exterminator, who is planning a three-visit attack on my apartment. I burst into tears when he told me that I'd have to bag all of my belongings and wash everything I own in hot water. I hung up the phone and told the vet that I had to go home to get my checkbook and that I'd bring back the bottle of antibiotics that I've been giving the kitten that I forgot to bring because I rushed out of the house so fast.