(Can you believe how many posts I’ve written about gerbils? And isn’t “gerbil” a funny word? Say it a few times in a row: “Gerbil, gerbil, gerbil, gerbil.” It loses all meaning doesn’t it? It turns right into gibberish. Or “gerbilish,” if you will.)
Nonetheless, Quinn loves his class gerbil, Daisy, so we brought her home this weekend for a visit.
And Daisy is three years old.
That’s why I signed up to bring her home early in the year. I figure if I bring her home in May, I’m just pushing my luck. It’s like we’re playing Gerbil Deathwatch Hot Potato and I don’t want to be the one caught holding the potato. Which, in this case, would be a dead gerbil.
I’m not going to point fingers, but we all remember who Daisy’s predecessor was staying with *cough*Momma Hu*cough* when she kicked the bucket.
(Oh, I guess I did point my finger. I hope Momma Hu stays my friend even after I publicly out her as
a gerbil killer the person unfortunate enough to be pet-sitting when the rodent died.)
All weekend long I’ve been carefully watching Daisy when she sleeps to make sure that she is breathing.
And yesterday, when I saw this, my heart kinda stopped.
I leaned in close and saw her foot twitching. She lives!
Only 12 more hours to go until I can take her back to school.
Hang in there, Daisy. Hang in there.
EDITED ON MONDAY TO ADD: She made it! I delivered a live gerbil to Quinn’s teacher this morning. Thank God.