Memory Monday: ROUSes

It's funny how history repeats itself.

When I was a young child pets, mostly dogs, never lasted long in our home.  With 3-5 very rambunctious children in their midst, they would either spring out the first chance they had or get fed up with our dog-torturing antics and bite one of us.  In this case my parents would promptly find new homes, probably worried we would turn into crazy animal torturers someday. 

The first dog who didn't cut and run the first chance he had.

Puppy Love:  The Best Dog Ever There Was

It was once in between pets that I asked my mom if we could get a gerbil, hamster or other such rodent.  Her response was swift and decisive.  

"Absolutely not."  she said, leaving no room for potential with a 'Maybe' or 'We'll see'.  

"Whh-hhhh-hhhh-y not?" I replied (I'm sure I was wailing bitter, lonely-for-a-pet tears).

"Because they eat their young." she replied, matter of factly.

My youthful innocence died a little that day.

Eventually, she went on to explain that as a child, she too, pleaded for a rodent-of-usual-size.  Her parents actually acquiesced and gave her a boy rodent and a girl rodent...who promptly became a papa rodent and momma rodent, respectively.  

After multiplying their numbers by, like exponents, my mother was awakened from sleep one night by a dreadful sound.  It was the sound of little rodent babies meeting a rather gruesome fate at the hands...errr paws, of their momma.

Thus eradicating the domesticated rodent population in my mother's childhood home forever.

It was for this reason there were never little critters in cages at our home.  

Months ago, a child came to me and asked "Momma, can we get a guinea pig?"

"No." was my swift, immediate response.

"Whh-hhhh-hhhh-y not?" she cried.

The phrase "Because they eat their young," escaped my lips before I even knew what I was saying.  

In consequence, I looked into her beautiful blue eyes, searching for any indication that my carelessly spoken words damaged her world of sparkles, sunshine and vermin that are cute, cuddly and don't carry disease.  

They didn't seem to.  Instead, she indignantly put her hand to her hips and with a look of disgusted shock stated, "That is so mean!  I would never do that!"

"That is definitely the right choice, honey."

***

About a month ago, a friend of mine retold a tragic story.  It seems her cat, Buddy, made like the Incredible Hulk of cats.  When the stimuli to his primal instincts were just right,  he snapped and went postal on Jules and Verne, two unsuspecting Russian Dwarf Hamster brothers minding their own business in their swanky hamster digs.  Verne squeaked by (bah-ha...that's punny) traumatized but physically unharmed.  Jules didn't make it...by a long shot.  (Alli mentioned a terrible scene of bloodshed-probably something like 'Wild Planet' meets 'Braveheart'.)

Meet Verne-The Ultimate Survivor

Needless to say, Verne needed a new feline-free home.  And since we'd rather He-Man not require a Benedryl Drip, we were the perfect candidates.  I had a logical conversation with myself (as logical as talking to oneself can be). I was able to hush any concerns by stating that one hamster can not spontaneously procreate thus avoiding said animal's cannibalistic feast.  After a quick run down on how not to kill a hamster, I brought home, to the delighted squeals of a gaggle of little girls, Verne the Lonely Hamster.  We had our first Rodent Of Usual Size.  

During the following days I was peppered with questions over whether Verne was actually a boy since if he wasn't of the male persuasion, he simply had to be renamed 'Princess Verna' or 'Lady Verona of Jax'.  While consulting a friend, she informed me that in such rodents, gender is very easy to determine as the male reproductive organs are almost mutantly large.  

Let it be known to all records that his name will remain 'Verne'.

Time passed and eventually the funk surrounding Verne's cage indicated it was time for his house cleaning.  All the adoring fans who spent hours each day fawning over him suddenly disappeared.  

It was me, Verne and a vacuum.  

During the first attempt, I noted how much easier he was to clean up after than goldfish...which are the most disgusting pets on earth, by the way.  Then I found his poop spot.  I couldn't help but pause and consider a deep, thought provoking issue I hadn't considered before.  This little guy's ancestors were at least 50% responsible for the transmission of the bubonic plague that wiped out a bunch of Europe and Asia in the Middle Ages.

A rather disquieting thought considering I had just accidentally spilled the contaminated contents of the vacuum canister all over the carpeted playroom floor;  leaving it peppered with urine soaked newspaper bedding and little Verne poops that, with the imagination of a 4 year old, could easily be passed as Barbie food...gracing the empty plates sitting on top of the little table in the doll house across the room.  

Awesome.  There goes 1/3 to 2/3 of our Barbie population.

Of course, those who know me best, know that I am grace under fire.  My feathers don't get ruffled and I NEVER panic over silly stuff like biological contamination.

I did what any calm, rational adult dealing with a minor incident would do.

I called HAZMAT and explained that a major international incident was brewing considering that Barbie's health, who happened to be the president of the free world and three surrounding planets, was at stake and I needed back-up.  

Luckily, the troops mobilized and within minutes, the threat was neutralized and the previously mentioned swanky digs were sterilized.  All while sweet little Verne looked on, plotting his escape from the Dreaded Bubble of Isolation.

In the end, the situation wouldn't have been so bad had I not insisted on using the vacuum when the canister wasn't latched and on the verge of regurgitating it's contents. 

It was a close one.  We narrowly avoided inflicting rodent bias on a third generation.  Because of my fearless efforts to go in, where the bombs were dropping, the following conversation will never take place.

"Momma, can I have a gerbil?"

"No"

"Whhhh-hhhh-hh-y not?"

"Because their ancestors were responsible for the mass annihilation of millions of Europeans from a disease that caused uncomfortable symptoms like bleeding from their eye sockets and having their fingers and toes turn black."

"Sweet Dreams, Darling."