the saga of the flying gerbils, part I

I wrote this story for my friend E.'s mother after various discussions of Fox News conspiracies, mutated sci-fi house pets, and the heinousness of Monday mornings somehow culminated in the invention of flying gerbils whose sole purpose was to torment humanity.

The Saga of the Flying Gerbils

Part I : The Discovery

She gave them Mountain Dew.

At least that was Jenny Wilson's defense, and it was the only thing she could think to say when the scientist and the reporter started questioning her the day after her gerbils started flying.

"I didn't know it was bad for them," she insisted.

The reporter, a short, balding man in a striped, v-neck t-shirt that didn't quite cover his plume of gray chest hair, nervously rubbed his hands together as he looked around her living room.

The only pictures on the walls were of her mother, who had died unexpectedly last summer after choking on a walnut, and her gerbils, Pinky and Fluffy. Last Christmas her brother had given her Photoshop for her computer, and this gave Pinky and Fluffy the ability to travel, not only geographically but also through time and space. In one photograph, they frolicked along the rings of Saturn. In another, they darted between the feet of a gunfighter in the wild west.

"So you live alone, then," the reporter said, his gray eyes searching her face the same way they had her room. "And you're how old?"

"I don't understand why that matters," she said. "My gerbils are missing."

"And this is the house you grew up in?"

Jenny didn't answer. Instead she stared at the jagged edges of the shattered pane of glass where Pinky and Fluffy had escaped. She tried to think of ways she might have accidentally broken it, of ways she might have been careless. The truth, that they had literally flown out the window, was still too impossible for her to accept.

"We need to know exactly what you've been giving them," said the scientist, shuffling through the wood chips in the bottom of their cage. "We need to know how much and how often."

"I told you, I gave them Mountain Dew," Jenny said, becoming frustrated.

"Can you think of anything else?" the scientist asked. He pulled a plastic bag out of the deep pocket of his coat and saved a few wood chips. "What did you feed them?"

"What did you feed them," Jenny said mockingly. "I fed them the same things I eat, and you don't see me flying out the window."

"And what do you eat?" he asked.

"Normal stuff," she said. "Two Taco Bell tacos with cheese, sour cream, and tomatos, three times a day. Three square meals, see?"

The reporter scribbled furiously into his notebook.

"I see," said the scientist, who leaned over and whispered something to the reporter, who nodded. "Thank you very much, Miss Wilson. We'll be in touch."

The scientist and the reporter hurried out of Jenny's house, ignoring her pleas: "What about my gerbils? Aren't you people supposed to be finding them?"

The moment they were out the door, the reporter was on the phone to Fox News: "We have a problem on our hands," he said. "Yes, the flying gerbils, that's right. And they could be dangerous.

day 44: i ran with the dogs

Lately I've been searching for a cause, something I can wholeheartedly and selflessly support. Okay, so maybe it's not entirely selfless - I am, after all, an admitted narcissist, so in a way I need volunteer work as much as volunteer work needs me. But I do need to support my cause unequivocally; as a Libra, my innate need to weigh every option dictates this.

Because I am fascinated by the critters of this world (and because going to veterinary school would cost literally more than my life is worth, which according to my own calculations is approximately the same as a bottle of mid-quality Shiraz), volunteering at an animal shelter seemed a natural choice.

And as though fated, last week my friend L. sent me an e-mail from a group of volunteers who run with dogs at The Pet Connection, a no-kill shelter in Mission, Kansas. And because a calm dog is more likely to be adopted than a rowdy, holy-shit-it's-people, I'm-gonna-lick-your-face-now dog, the volunteers perform a valuable service by wearing the dogs out.

The only catch: the runs start at 9 a.m. on Saturday mornings, a time I normally like to call "comatose." But, I have to remind myself, this isn't about you. Unlike a hungover state, which I have determined is the most self-centered state of existence possible (I need food; I need Advil; I need water; I need an intravenous saline drip), this is all about the dogs.

So I arrived at Mission Pet Connection at 9 a.m. sharp, chugging a nonfat pumpkin spice latte from Starbucks before stepping out to meet Devon, the sweet fella I'd be taking for a walk.

A mild-mannered pup who looked to be somewhere between German shepherd and corgi, Devon was eager to hit the pavement. The volunteer coordinator explained the route, and then we were off. 

Admittedly I hadn't known what to expect - I showed up with my hair down wearing jean shorts and my worn-the-fuck-out eight-year-old Chucks - but I quickly got the rhythm down and discovered that running with a dog is borderline freaking joyous. At stoplights, Devon would jump up, put his paws on my chest and lick my arm while I called him a good buddy and scratched his ears.

After spending 14 years of my life with Eddie, Jack Russell Terrier extraordinaire, I would love to have a little terrier of my own, but my small, yardless Midtown apartment and strange hours would be unfair to such a wonderful creature. Perhaps someday I will be able to afford a little house with a little yard for a little dog. 

But in the meantime, running with the dogs on Saturday mornings is a happy middle ground.

Side note: My other mega-cause is marriage equality, so hopefully I'll find a meaningful way to support that goal as well. Because goddammit, I find its detractors just infuriatingly wrong and stupid, and thusly my Libran nature is satisfied.