CONFESSIONS OF A SOUTHERN FATHER
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5 min read1 day ago
APARTMENT PETS
One hot summer day, the girls and I decided a trip to the local mall was in order. Why that strange force struck, causing us to wander about the many stores with so little money, one can only guess. I think it was our good Lord and His sense of humor.
The cool, conditioned air of the mall felt wonderful after riding in our non-air-conditioned car and sitting on red vinyl seats. There’s nothing like sweltering to bring a family closer.
“Oh, Dad-dee, aren’t they cute,” the oldest cried after pressing her nose against the pet store window. Puppies of all persuasions nipped, barked, and played with one another. It’s funny how one never notices the true messes they create in the cage.
“Can we have one?” she asked me, so hopeful as her brown eyes blinked back a few tears. Her little sister said nothing; she was concentrating on something deeper in the store.
“No, baby,” I had to say. Lord knows we didn’t have the money for the pet deposit, much less the vet bills. Her little chin quivered and fell to her chest. Neither of my girls was prone to demands or squirrely grocery store candy fits. One, I wouldn’t allow it, and neither would their mother. But this struck me hard because there’s nothing worse than watching your child’s heart break.
“Dad-dee,” the youngest said while pointing at something inside the store. We followed her directions, seeing two fuzzy little hamsters giving us that ‘come buy me look.’
Moments later, despite our empty bank account, Better Half and I were now owners of our own rat. The irony of parenthood had overridden that, as country kids, we’d spent most of our early lives trying to send rats to hell. Not only had we purchased a rodent but also a cage, water bottle, food, and pleasantly smelling cedar shavings.
Better Half leaned in as I wrote the check and whispered, “Sucker, I’d have never given in.”
There’s a lot they don’t tell you at the pet store. The little buggers will sleep all day and then run on that wheel all night as if chasing a hot date.
There were other things the long-haired, pimple-faced salesman didn’t bother to explain. If the hamster isn’t running on that wheel or sleeping in the cedar shavings, it’s eating food and draining its water bottle. That leads to a very smelly cage. You won’t turn the air conditioner off while you’re away to save a little money but once.
A week later, the shavings needed to be changed, and old Dad decided he could use this horrible task to teach the girls responsibility.
“Now baby girl,” I explained to the youngest, “Just reach your hand in and gently take Roger the Rodent,” at least that’s what I called him, “while Daddy empties the cage.” She reached in alright, and old Roger didn’t take kindly to the intrusion of his personal space. That rat sank his teeth into the end of her finger, which caused a rapid and involuntary withdrawal of said limb.
Now, I’m sure Roger didn’t intend to release her finger as her arm reached super-sonic Warp 8 speed. But it’s also a given fact that nature couldn’t create teeth strong enough to withstand the whip-lash effect. Ole Roger belonged in the Roadrunner cartoons, playing the part of the coyote as his body splatted against the sheetrock wall. His little claws tried to dig in to arrest his descent but failed. He hit the floor, shook his head several times, trying to clear the stars, and then slowly started crawling and dragging his bruised body away. I picked him up and then scolded my youngest for her carelessness.
“You could have killed him,” I fussed and frowned.
Luckily, Roger managed to shake off the unexpected launch, and that night, he ran the wheel extra hard.
Late the next Friday afternoon, Better Half and the girls were visiting her parents. So, after spying the smelly cage, I decided it needed changing before they returned.
As I reached into the cage, Roger decided that once wasn’t enough. He locked onto the end of my finger, shooting fierce pain all the way to my shoulder. This time, the rat didn’t have a chance as my arm withdrew as if propelled by a JATO rocket. There was no autopsy, but it’s safe to say Roger the Rodent died of blunt-force trauma.
“Oh no,” I thought, looking at the flattened rodent; “They’ll never forgive me.” Somewhere in this event, normal reasoning left the building. Thinking back, it occurred to me I could have arranged it to look like a horrible accident with the wheel or maybe even a suicide.
“Tried to tell your mother he needed a playmate,” I would say while removing the hangman’s noose from his neck.
“Joe,” I said desperately into the phone moments later, “Can you come over and drive me to the mall?” After I explained the situation, my best friend callously replied, “Have you lost your mind? It’s Friday night and Miller time.” Desperate times call for extreme measures.
“Remember when your wife asked me about that weekend hunting trip of yours and I…”
“Be there in two minutes,” he suddenly agreed. It’s nice to have a friend with a guilty conscience.
The dollars I’d managed to squirrel away for Better Half’s coming birthday now took another path. This would be a cash transaction that couldn’t be traced. The long-haired reefer-smoking salesman informed me how to avoid repeating the same accident. So very nice of him to do that at this late date.
There were a few anxious moments, but as my girls returned tired from their visit, it seemed neither gave old, new, Roger the Rodent so much as a glance.
Whew! I said a silent thank-you prayer. Little did I know this rodent problem was about to get worse.
