#pet problems

[IMAGE: A slightly blurry photo of a very small, fluffy, innocent-looking hamster sitting on a tiny, chewed-up piece of what looks suspiciously like motorcycle wiring. The hamster has beady, bright eyes.]

My life is a living hell. And it’s all my fault. And a ten-year-old’s fault. And a hamster’s fault.

Okay, Batfam, I need to vent. And also maybe… get advice? Or just commiseration. Either way, this is a saga that started with my incredibly brilliant, genius idea of an "apology."

You know how it is. Sometimes you're on a mission, sometimes you're just... having a Tuesday. And sometimes, on a Tuesday, you accidentally vaporize one of Damian's custom-forged, ancient-alloy, probably-haunted shurikens because you thought it was a very conveniently shaped, extremely pointy stress-ball. (Don't ask. My stress levels were high. My judgment was low. Also, who makes a shuriken out of an alloy that detonates when exposed to a specific frequency of sonic vibration? Damian Wayne, apparently. The point is, it was a mistake).

Naturally, the demon spawn was less than thrilled. He gave me a look that could curdle milk and probably did, actually, make some of Alfred’s prize-winning sourdough collapse. So, being the mature, responsible adult I am (citation needed), I decided a peace offering was in order. Something small. Something… unexpectedly annoying, perhaps. An animal.

A hamster.

I bought him the fluffiest, most unassuming little creature I could find. Named it 'Pip' myself, because it sounded suitably benign. Handed it over, expecting a sneer, maybe a lecture on responsibility, or even an attempt to weaponize it immediately.

Instead, he just looked at it. And then at me. And then back at the hamster. A small, almost imperceptible nod. "I shall call him Pip," he announced, as if granting the creature a great honor. "He shall be a credit to his lineage."

I swear, I felt a shiver down my spine. That lineage? Mine? His? The vendor's? The Bat-Family's collective poor judgment? I brushed it off. It was a hamster, for god's sake. What could a hamster do?

Oh, sweet summer child, Jason Todd. You had no idea.

Part 1: The Subtle Sabotage (or, Is My Laundry Just Bad?)

It started small. Barely noticeable. The kind of thing you dismiss as "just one of those things."

First, it was a tiny, perfectly round hole in one of my less-favorite t-shirts. My initial thought: dry cleaner mishap. Or maybe a moth. In the Batcave, where everything is hermetically sealed and probably routinely fumigated with anti-chaos agents? Unlikely, but I rolled with it.

Then, another shirt. And another. And then my favorite, battered, "Property of the Red Hood" hoodie had a small, neat tear in the sleeve. Not a rip from a villain, mind you. This was… almost surgical. Like tiny, very sharp teeth.

I brought it up with Alfred, because who else do you talk to about holes in your clothing? He just gave me that look, the one that says "I've seen worse, Master Jason, usually involving a grapple gun and a very unfortunate gargoyle." Said he’d check the laundry machines. He didn't find anything, of course.

I started noticing Pip. He was… active. Very active. During the day, Damian would have him out of his cage, often perched on his shoulder, or sometimes on the desk while Damian was doing his homework. Pip would just sit there, sometimes, looking around with those beady eyes. And sometimes, his little nose would twitch. And I swear to god, sometimes he'd stare directly at me.

Part 2: The Escalation of Assholery (My Motorcycle Has Trust Issues Now)

A week or so passed. The holes in my clothes were becoming a theme. I was starting to look like a punk rocker from 1985, but without the cool leather, just… holes.

Then came the bike. My baby. My glorious, custom-built motorcycle. I took it out for a patrol, and something felt off. The brakes. Just a hair too much give. I pulled over, checked everything. Couldn't find anything amiss. Drove it back, feeling paranoid.

The next day, I was doing routine maintenance (yes, I do that, shocker), and I found it. A tiny, almost imperceptible gnaw mark on one of the brake line wires. Not enough to sever it, but enough to weaken it. Enough to make me think I was going insane.

"There's rats in the garage, Bruce," I grumbled at him later, showing him the mark. Bruce just peered at it, then at me. "Jason, the Batcave is rodent-proofed to an extreme degree. Perhaps you should consider a tune-up."

I looked at Damian, who was sketching a very detailed diagram of what looked like a miniature trebuchet, with Pip nestled in his hair like some kind of furry, evil fascinator. Pip looked at me. His nose twitched. Damian didn't even look up.

"Perhaps, Todd, your mechanical skills are simply… lacking," Damian offered, without preamble.

I felt my eye twitch. "My mechanical skills are fine, demon spawn! What is that thing doing in your hair?!"

Damian merely smoothed Pip's fur. "Pip enjoys the vantage point. He is a creature of keen observation."

Observation, my ass. More like reconnaissance.

Part 3: The Unmistakable Evidence (And My Hair. MY HAIR.)

The incidents continued. My favorite coffee mug, chipped at the rim, not from dropping, but from tiny, neat bites. My comms link, crackling with static because a minuscule wire had been chewed. My spare lock-picking kit, found scattered across the floor, and some of the smaller components… flattened.

I was getting paranoid. I started locking my door, even in the Batcave. I put my Red Hood helmet on a high shelf. I started checking everything before I used it.

Then, it happened. The breaking point.

I was suiting up for patrol. Reached for my Red Hood helmet. It was just where I'd left it, on a shelf I thought was too high for any small, furry menace to reach. I picked it up, expecting the familiar weight.

Instead, I felt… something else. Something small. Something… lumpy.

I flipped the helmet over. And there they were. Tiny. Dark. Perfectly formed. Hamster poops. A collection of them. Like a tiny, fecal constellation.

My blood ran cold. My blood ran hot. My blood was just… running.

"DAMIAN!" I roared, the amplified sound of my own voice echoing through the Batcave.

He was at his training station, practicing with a brand new, pristine set of shurikens. Pip was, as usual, on his shoulder. Damian turned, perfectly unruffled. "Yes, Todd?"

"This! This is what I’m talking about!" I thrust the helmet forward, tilting it so he could see the horror within. "Poop! In my HELMET! PURE. HAMSTER. POOP!"

Damian squinted. He leaned in, examining the inside of the helmet with an air of detached academic interest. Pip, meanwhile, seemed to be holding his breath. "Indeed," Damian observed. "Fecal matter. Rather typical of a small rodent, would you not agree?"

"Are you serious?! You think this is 'typical'?! This is an act of war, Damian! Your rodent is terrorizing me!"

Damian raised an eyebrow, a gesture he'd clearly perfected from Bruce. "Pip? Pip is a highly intelligent and exceptionally well-behaved creature. He would never despoil another's property. Perhaps," he continued, eyes narrowing ever so slightly, "you should clean your gear more thoroughly, Todd. Mites, perhaps?"

"Mites don't leave perfectly formed, miniature turds!" I shrieked. "This is Pip! This is YOUR rodent!"

Just then, as I was gesticulating wildly, I felt something. A slight breeze on the back of my head. I reached up, my hand brushing against my hair. It felt… shorter. In one specific spot. Like a tiny, precision trim.

I felt a cold dread creep over me. I ran to a reflective surface, tore off my mask, and stared. Near the nape of my neck, a small-ish patch of my hair was… gone. Not shaved, but nipped. As if someone, or something, had taken tiny, sharp, highly accurate bites.

I turned back to Damian, my face pale, a silent scream building in my throat. I couldn't even form words. I just pointed at my head, then at the helmet, then at Pip.

Damian looked at my hair, then back at Pip, who was now meticulously grooming himself on Damian's shoulder, as if he'd just completed a very satisfying task.

"Your hair is merely… unkempt, Todd," Damian said, his voice flat, devoid of any emotion. "Perhaps you are merely projecting your own chaotic nature onto an innocent animal." He turned back to his shurikens, dismissing me.

"Are you BLIND?!" I yelled. "My hair is SHORT! And there's POOP IN MY HELMET!"

"Perhaps," a calm voice interjected from behind me. It was Bruce, emerging from a darkened alcove, a half-eaten granola bar in his hand. He took one look at my disheveled state, the helmet, then at Damian and Pip. He sighed. "Jason, Damian, is there a problem?"

"HE'S LETTING HIS RODENT VIOLATE MY POSSESSIONS!" I bellowed, holding up the helmet like it was Exhibit A in a very weird court case.

Bruce peered into the helmet. His gaze lingered for a moment, then he looked at Damian. Damian had the most innocent expression on his face I have ever seen. Pip, meanwhile, gave a small, contented squeak.

"Jason," Bruce said, his voice laced with that familiar 'long-suffering father' tone. "It's a hamster. They secrete waste. It's what they do."

"And the hair?!" I demanded, turning around to show Bruce the bald patch.

Bruce blinked. He actually blinked. Then a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk played on his lips. "Perhaps you've been… stress-chewing, Jason? It wouldn't be the first time." And with that, he walked away, probably to hide his laughter.

Part 4: The Silent War (And Why I Now Keep Snacks in Metal Bins)

I knew. Damian knew I knew. But he would never admit it.

From that day on, it was an unspoken war. I started taking extreme precautions. My clothes were stored in sealed, heavy-duty plastic bins. My motorcycle controls were encased in custom-built, hamster-proof plating (which, by the way, took days to install). My comms unit was now integrated directly into my helmet, with no external wires.

It was a full-time job, trying to outwit a vengeful ten-year-old and his tiny, furry accomplice.

I'd leave out decoy wires, hoping to distract Pip. I'd find them meticulously gnawed, with a tiny, perfect tooth-mark pattern, as if Pip was leaving his signature.

I tried leaving a small bowl of highly spicy chili powder near my boots, thinking it would deter him. The next morning, the bowl was empty, and Pip looked at me from Damian's shoulder with an expression that said, "Pathetic. Try harder."

Damian, for his part, became even more serene. He'd simply observe. Sometimes, when he thought no one was looking, I’d catch him giving Pip a tiny, congratulatory head-pat. And Pip would just… radiate smugness.

Part 5: The New Normal (Or, My Life Now Includes Hamster-Based PTSD)

It's been a month or so now. I've accepted my fate. This isn't an apology gift. This was a declaration of war, disguised as a peace offering. And I, Jason Todd, Red Hood, former Robin, have been thoroughly outmaneuvered by a ten-year-old and a rodent the size of my fist.

I still find evidence sometimes. A tiny, perfect bite mark on the spine of a book I left out. A single, solitary hamster poop on my pillow (when I know I locked my door). The persistent feeling that I'm being watched.

Last night, I walked into the main part of the Batcave and saw Damian. He was at the main console, doing… something. Bruce trusted him with the main console. This is probably another bad idea. Pip was, inevitably, perched on the monitor, looking at me. Then he looked at the console. Then he looked back at me.

As I watched, Pip took a tiny, deliberate bite out of a non-essential wire connected to the Bat-Computer's diagnostic system. Just a little nibble. Not enough to cause a malfunction, but enough to make a dent.

Damian looked up, met my gaze, and offered a faint, almost imperceptible smirk.

My blood ran cold again. I just stared at him. Then at Pip, who was now meticulously cleaning his whiskers, as if he'd just committed an act of supreme genius.

"Todd," Damian said, his voice as smooth as ever, "is there something you require?"

I just shook my head. "No, Damian. No, I don't think so."

I walked away. I didn't want to know. I didn't need to know. My life is now a constant state of low-level paranoia, fueled by a creature that fits in the palm of my hand.

I swear, next time, I'm just buying him a pony. Or a flamethrower. Anything but a small, furry, evil rodent.

(I can’t remember if she had a nickname)

She wants another cat

She and Alexia already have Kiara and Marie but she wants more. Alexia is still pretending that she's not a cat person but she wouldn't mind another cat as well

i have a 5 y/o male cat that i adopted in my senior year of highschool and had to leave with my mom thru college. i’m finally in my own place in a position that i can move him in with me, my fiance, and his 3 y/o cat. unfortunately, my boy seems to not be friendly with other cats and we found that out when my fiance’s cat had to stay with me at my parents’ place while we were on vacation 🫣

they didn’t truly interact but they saw and heard each other through doors and windows and she was mostly skittish but he was doing the whole growling/hissing thing. he didn’t make a move to attack but i’m not sure what he would do if they were to actually live together. we have a 1250 sq ft apartment so space shouldn’t be an issue.

my main reasons for wanting to take him from my mom’s is that she has somewhat neglected his health and i want to get him back to a healthy weight and actually start brushing his coat and teeth because he has dental issues from lack of regular brushing (which i used to do when i first adopted him). he’s like 7 lbs overweight and he blew up in weight when i stopped being able to monitor his intake when i left for college.

my options are a) try to move him in with me and slowly introduce him to fiance’s cat, and if it doesn’t work out my mom will take him back (she doesn’t want me to take him anyway) or b) just leave him with my mom, health issues and all 🫠

I have a "Barn Cat" she is a sorta stray kinda pet. Has been for 8 years.

But now after my shift at work, I come home and it looks like she got in a small fight, and she has released her anal glands. Idk it's all very confusing for me. She seems okay. No pain. She eats normally and drinks water fine. But all around her butt she has no hair and it looks red and moist. I'd assume from the glands.

I really don't have the money to be dropping a K on a surgery. So I'm like really weighing my options and really want what's best for kitty. She is a bit of a