by Gayle Parks

Created on: April 17, 2008

We had many pets during my childhood years. We had horses, dogs, cats and once a pair of rabbits but one of the most memorable pets we ever had was George, the gerbil.

George was a furry little blond colored Gerbil. He had been part of a science project my older sister's science class had conducted. There was another gerbil that was also a part of this project but, alas, he met a sudden and rather traumatic end when he fell into a jar of alcohol one of the students had carelessly left out. At any rate, at the end of the project my sister begged our mother to allow her to bring George home. Our mother, thinking that a gerbil couldn't possible live all that long anyway, consented and George came home to live with us.

George lived in a cage sat atop the dresser in my brother's room. There he spent his days doing what gerbils do; sleeping, eating, pooping and running round and round on an endless journey in a metal wheel. He was very tame and we played with him a lot. We carried him around in our cupped hands, and supervised while he scampered across our beds. We even took him outside occasionally so he could nibble at the grass. Our father used to stuff him gently into his shirt pocket and then drive down to the store to buy bread or beer so he could howl with laughter at the shrieks of the lady behind the counter when George poked his head up and twitched his nose at her.

George was a master at escaping from his cage too, until we got smart and clipped the door shut with a safety pin. He would climb down the edge of the dresser (we assumed this is what he did since none of us actually witnessed any of his escapes), scurry out the door, make his way down the hall into the kitchen and disappear behind the refrigerator. We always knew he was behind the refrigerator because the cat would take up sentry in front of it and stare underneath. He never stayed hidden for long though because we would banish the cat from the house, sat out a pile of Cheetos on the floor and stand back and wait. Sure enough, out would come George and we would simply scoop him up and deposit him back in his cage.

George lived to the ripe old age of five years. We found him dead in his cage one day. My sister had begun dating by then and her boyfriend looked at poor old George curled up in his last slumber and said that he had gone to the big gerbil cage in the sky. Good old George: May he rest in peace.

Learn more about this author, Gayle Parks.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.