Pets, Part 6, Pet Crimes!

by michaelcahill

Background
Autobiographical. Poetry, essays and commentary on world and personal events. Anything that doesn't fit anywhere else is likely to found here.

Before long it became clear that the time to do something about our illegal gerbil trafficking enterprise had come. The fact that trafficking didn't exist as a component factored in heavily. We had plenty of product. We lacked a market. We had no customers.

The fine for possessing an illegal gerbil rang in at fifteen hundred dollars each. We had eighty seven. One hundred thirty thousand five hundred dollars and no cents in liability and zero prospects for profit and zero value in inventory. It cost about eighty dollars a month in feed. They were nocturnal and enjoyed a nice run on their squeaky wheels at about two A.M. until sun up.

We came up with a brilliant plan to rid ourselves of our gerbil empire. Are you kidding? Do you really think Donna would consider that? There isn't very much meat on one anyway.

We decided to drive them to Las Vegas where they were legal. They brought almost two bucks a piece on the open market there and they were legal! Wholesale had to be at least fifty cents apiece. We stood to make a cool forty three dollars and fifty cents if we played our cards right! They don't call me the Gerbil King for nothing.

The journey would not be without peril. There were roughly two hundred and fifty unfriendly miles between Alhambra, California and Las Vegas, Nevada. It would be a treacherous journey and there wouldn't be a friendly face on the way. We thought about taking Seemore (our macaw) with us for muscle, but he would want to drive and I got tired of arguing with him about it all the time.

We loaded the cages full of gerbils in the little pick-up truck. The gerbils were piled into large coffee cans with holes poked into the plastic lids. We were ready to roll. By the time we reached about five miles out of town the gerbils had chewed through the plastic lids and were running all over the the cab of the pick-up.

Gerbils don't have mouse personalities. They don't hide or scurry. They are curious and stay out in the open and stare and explore.

They were on the dashboard enjoying the view. They were on the seat grooving to The Beatles White Album with us. They were in the back window making faces at the traffic following us.

They were signaling truck drivers to blow their horns. They were giving the finger to drivers that cut us off. Hey, they were California gerbils.

We left California in a bit of a paranoid state. We had a small fear of being pulled over and perhaps getting into trouble for having a truckload of illegal gerbils. Our paranoia had transformed into a state of excited and enjoyable delirium.

We all sang along to the White Album and enjoyed ourselves. Reality? That was for sissies.

We made it to Las Vegas and received twenty five cents apiece for the gerbils. Ha! Fools! They could have had them for free. Never mess with the Gerbil King.

We had an iguana named Iggy that sat on a stick and ate crickets. The end.

The baby hummingbird seemed like an impossible task even to Mr. Eternal Anything is Possible Optimist Mikey. It looked smaller than anything alive could actually be. How could anything that small have actual organs inside of it when it didn't look big enough to even have an inside?

He wanted to be a hummingbird, that was apparent. Flying like a little Blackhawk attack unit at nectarous flowers seemed a dream a long ways off for this little guy. But, together we would try.

A mixture of sugar water would be the preferred diet and with eye-dropper in hand I set about to feed him. I have huge hands. They aren't clumsy, I am a musician. But, they are rather large and look even more so on my smallish sized body.

It looked almost insane when I feed this little bit of a thing with my monstrous mitts. But, we managed. I swear that every two hours when I went to feed him it was with a feeling of dread. There he would be, standing there with open beak as if to say, "Bring it on!"

This went on for several days around the clock. About the seventh day I heard this strange buzzing sound. I looked over at his little enclosure and there he was suspended in mid-air. He was hummingbirding! He looked like a little helicopter.

It will remain one of the happiest sights I have ever seen in my life. The silly thought, "I made a hummingbird" went through my mind. I yelled out, "Donna!" She came running. She knew. We both knew that tone we would get. She knew what it meant to me and gave me a big hug.

"I knew you could do it." she lied. A great wife knows how to lie and exactly when to lie. Within a couple days he joined the world of Curtis Ave. and all the nectar he could drink. He was immortal, I know that. He is the one hummingbird that will live forever. I say it is so.

Love Does Not Divide

there is no way to measure some things
mothers love their first born child
with all of their heart, all of it
there is not one single part of it
that is not devoted to that beautiful child

but, then another child arrives
it is beautiful and it is loved as well
with all of that mother's heart
every little bit of it

and then another
and even another perhaps

each loved fully
each loved totally
one as much as the other

how is this so?
how can a mother love one with everything?
and another with everything?
and still another?

because love does not divide
it grows.

Then there came the case of the devious fruit bat. In spite of it being a rodent which I am afraid of, it still needed my help. So, I had to put my neurotic tendencies aside and call a truce inside my terrified psyche. These kids brought me a damn flying rat! And they expected me to raise the hideous thing.

Well, I got my eyedropper and with my giant circus hands set about to feed the creature that would surely suck the blood out of my neck in my sleep. It was the least I could do. After all he enjoyed biting me so much, why would I deny him anything else?

One day I thought it might be getting close to the time to release him back to the wild jungles of Curtis Avenue. I approached his cage and he just laid there looking unwell to say the least. I picked his limp body up and took him to the front porch where the light had been turned on for the evening.

As soon as I got out the door he flew out of my hand into the night. I swear I heard him hiss, "Sucker". Being a poet, I answered something that rhymed and wished him well.

Damn thing, I had planned to let him go anyway. He just had to make a fool out of me.

No wonder I am afraid of rodents. They are hurtful. Poor Mikey.

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