The Dead Gerbil Blues

I recently came across a blog where the author talked about his family. Yes, one of those boring, family blogs. You've seen them, I'm sure. Nothing worth reading is ever posted on those boring, family blogs. Why is there never anything like "Uncle Frank blew his brains out with a shotgun last night!" or "I discovered that my wife has pissed away all my hard-earned life savings and that she's a dyke!"

Nope, none of that. He talked about his boring wife, his boring kids, and even his boring pets--a cat and a gerbil. I thought I'd leave a comment about my gerbil. I wonder if I freaked him out?

Like you, I had a gerbil.

Although it was a female, I named her Dartanion. A little musketeer.

After three years of having Dartanion as a pet, one day in 1996 I found her body in the aquarium that was her home. She was motionless, pressed against the glass of the tank, and slightly buried under the urine-scented cedar woodchips, toilet paper rolls and bits of gnawed egg cartons--she was dead.

But Dartanion's story doesn't end there. No, rather than simply toss her in the garbage like you would a dog or cat, I decided that she was to live on in a different state. I found an old mason jar, dropped the rat inside (plink!) and sealed the lid, labeling it using a ball-point pen and a piece of masking tape. I then put her safely in the chest freezer.

To this very day her cold body rests in that frosted jar. Now and then I'll show her to houseguests, who, with sickened expressions, stare into the dull, gray eyes of my now 12-year-old gerbil.

They don't understand, though. They don't understand that there can only be one.

Only one.

Only one.

Only one.

Only one.

Only one.

- Wino McHackenpuke