Small Calamities

Your Calamities

We Hates Them, Precious... We Hates the Subletterers Forever
August 6, 2005 | permalink

You know, there were some things that I expected to have happened when I got back to my apartment- Wait, let me back up...

Guess what? I'm back in my apartment (a whole 10 days early!), and I slept in my own bed last night... Ahhhh... How did this come to pass, you might ask? I delegated my very meager duties during the run of the show to my assistant. He got more hours, and I got to come home early. I have to go back for strike next weekend, but that is just for a couple of days and strike is fun anyway...

Back to the story at hand: I knew that the subletters had a dog. I expected there to be a lingering dog odor in the apartment, and I expected to have to sweep and mop a couple of times to get it back into shape. I expected that my plants would have been killed. I was reasonably sure that some cleaning of the fridge would be in order, and I figured that some stuff would have been moved around and I would have some re-arranging to do. Pretty par for the course, I would think.

I didn't expect the kitchen sink to look like the last thing they used it for was to give the dog a bath, and to have it full of damp, stinking dog hair that had since become a breeding ground for flies.

I didn't expect the trash can to be full, and to find that it had obviously been being used without trash bags (of which there was a box right next to it). I also didn't expect to find not one but two dead mice (in various stages of decay) at the bottom of the can. And I was certainly not expecting there to be a big cardboard box full of trash (and not all dry trash either) in my living room.

I was surprised that the dished looked like they had never recieved more than a rinsing... a lot of the stuff in the cabinet was downright dirty. Oh, and the kitchen had obviously been infested with mice (besides the dead ones); there were chewed open boxes and food and mouse shit all over the top of the fridge, the counter, and the floor.

On top of that, I was flabberghasted to find the afghans my grandmother made me when I was a boy covered in dog stink and hair and grit, having obviously been used as bedding for the dog. And downright stunned when I found the plastic bag full of my dish towels, soaking wet with dog urine, under my comfy chair.

Needless to say, I called and left a seething message outlining what, exactly, I had found and what I thought about it. But for some reason, they didn't call back. Hmmm... shocking.