So, I'm doing a thesis.
Don't ask me why I'm doing a thesis. It was one of those harebrained ideas that I love to throw myself into completely and later regret. But a thesis is one of those things it is not easy to weasel one's way out of.
I didn't have to do a thesis. I could have done 30 credits of coursework for my master's degree. Nice, directed, easy coursework. In fact, I didn't even need to do a master's degree. I could have just graduated this summer along with everyone else in my class and joined a pleasant little consulting firm. Simple. I could have been sipping stout at happy hour with my office buddies, joking about our clients and rolling in my relative wealth. But no.
Instead, I'm sitting in a shared office in the Telecommunications wing (keep in mind, I'm doing my thesis in the Environmental Engineering department), grading assignments as a TA for a course in the Engineering Management department (seeing a general lack of pattern here?) after meeting with my thesis advisor. Shockingly enough, I'm not doing anything right and I need to revamp my entire experiment. Looks like my bed is a far-off mirage, a dream to only consider once I actually graduate. The best news is that I'm not getting paid.
The only reason I mention this with such bitterness is that I really, really want a cat. You might think the two are not mutually exclusive; after all, can't one have a cat and still do a thesis? Well, yes, unless one is me and decided to live in university-subsidized housing where any whisper of an animal might result in misdemeanor charges. This leaves dogs far out of the question, as they make too much noise. Cats have a tendency to roam about their turf, leading my landlords to suspect something when a feline is consistently clawing at the window of building J. In addition, my time spent at home is rather inconsistent. I might not get home until 3 am from my cozy little lab, but sometimes I hunker in my bed for a solid fourteen hour nap. I also hate cleaning litter boxes. However, my desire for furry companionship could not be assuaged. So I went in search of a silent, low-maintenance pet.
I ended up with gerbils. Gerbils are similar to hamsters except that they need to live in pairs, have long furry tails and can jump about seventeen times their own height (roughly). I fell in love with their tails immediately, because the rodents reminded me of tiny little cats. Have I mentioned that I love cats?
As it turns out, gerbils are escape artists. No joke. My first pair were black and named Cleo and Nelson. They escaped from their cage at least once a week, leading me to hone my hunting skills. It turns out that gerbils really, really like crawling into jars. I was pretty good at capturing the little bugs. I quickly became the most astute vegetarian hunter in all of Boulder. But one day, Nelson escaped straight out the front door. I'm assuming a hawk or owl took her under its wing, because it seems like a gerbil's intellect extends only as far as getting outside.
But as I mentioned above, gerbils need to live in pairs. So I thought introducing the forsaken Cleo to a new pair of gerbils would solve everything, creating a loving gerbil family. I bought two new gerbils and prepared to introduce them, split-cage style.
Cleo chewed through wire mesh to get to the other side and attack the intruders. Wire mesh. In ten minutes flat. I realized I had to keep them in separate cages to avoid an all-out gerbil war. So I switched the cages every day for two weeks or so, in order to acquaint each army with the scent of the other and trick them into thinking they'd lived together their whole lives. I tried introducing them again, wearing thick leather gloves. Immediate attack by Cleo. She'd obviously been using the other gerbils' scent as a way to better identify her enemies. I tried the cage-switch method for awhile longer.
One night, I timidly held Cleo up to her sparring buddies' cage so they could sniff one another through the metal bars. She tried to squeeze her head through and go for their throats. I pulled her back and was struck by the sharp sensation of a gerbil hanging off my finger by its teeth. I had never been bitten by a gerbil before, not seriously. It was like two rusty nails being lodged into your finger and then stuck in a vice grip. She hung on for a solid minute while I hollered and tried not to terrify my roommate, who was already afraid of rodents.
The next day I received a tetanus shot, which is never fun. I did get a cool Tazmanian Devil band-aid, though. I also developed a deep-seated hatred of my pets.
My gerbils now live in permanently separated cages. Cleo sulks in a dark corner of her tank, quietly plotting her murderous revenge on the intruders. The intruders frolick happily, playing together, bathing each other, and sleeping tightly balled together. Maybe one day they will forget about the crazed black gerbil who tried to destroy their peace and livelihood and instead remember only the giant pink hand which blesses them with sunflower seeds and cucumbers. Cleo will never forget the harbored hatred of those newcomers, who invaded her life in an attempt to steal her loneliness and relieve her of boredom. Damn them! DAMN THEM ALL!
I really want to own a cat.
Don't ask me why I'm doing a thesis. It was one of those harebrained ideas that I love to throw myself into completely and later regret. But a thesis is one of those things it is not easy to weasel one's way out of.
I didn't have to do a thesis. I could have done 30 credits of coursework for my master's degree. Nice, directed, easy coursework. In fact, I didn't even need to do a master's degree. I could have just graduated this summer along with everyone else in my class and joined a pleasant little consulting firm. Simple. I could have been sipping stout at happy hour with my office buddies, joking about our clients and rolling in my relative wealth. But no.
Instead, I'm sitting in a shared office in the Telecommunications wing (keep in mind, I'm doing my thesis in the Environmental Engineering department), grading assignments as a TA for a course in the Engineering Management department (seeing a general lack of pattern here?) after meeting with my thesis advisor. Shockingly enough, I'm not doing anything right and I need to revamp my entire experiment. Looks like my bed is a far-off mirage, a dream to only consider once I actually graduate. The best news is that I'm not getting paid.
The only reason I mention this with such bitterness is that I really, really want a cat. You might think the two are not mutually exclusive; after all, can't one have a cat and still do a thesis? Well, yes, unless one is me and decided to live in university-subsidized housing where any whisper of an animal might result in misdemeanor charges. This leaves dogs far out of the question, as they make too much noise. Cats have a tendency to roam about their turf, leading my landlords to suspect something when a feline is consistently clawing at the window of building J. In addition, my time spent at home is rather inconsistent. I might not get home until 3 am from my cozy little lab, but sometimes I hunker in my bed for a solid fourteen hour nap. I also hate cleaning litter boxes. However, my desire for furry companionship could not be assuaged. So I went in search of a silent, low-maintenance pet.
I ended up with gerbils. Gerbils are similar to hamsters except that they need to live in pairs, have long furry tails and can jump about seventeen times their own height (roughly). I fell in love with their tails immediately, because the rodents reminded me of tiny little cats. Have I mentioned that I love cats?
As it turns out, gerbils are escape artists. No joke. My first pair were black and named Cleo and Nelson. They escaped from their cage at least once a week, leading me to hone my hunting skills. It turns out that gerbils really, really like crawling into jars. I was pretty good at capturing the little bugs. I quickly became the most astute vegetarian hunter in all of Boulder. But one day, Nelson escaped straight out the front door. I'm assuming a hawk or owl took her under its wing, because it seems like a gerbil's intellect extends only as far as getting outside.
But as I mentioned above, gerbils need to live in pairs. So I thought introducing the forsaken Cleo to a new pair of gerbils would solve everything, creating a loving gerbil family. I bought two new gerbils and prepared to introduce them, split-cage style.
Cleo chewed through wire mesh to get to the other side and attack the intruders. Wire mesh. In ten minutes flat. I realized I had to keep them in separate cages to avoid an all-out gerbil war. So I switched the cages every day for two weeks or so, in order to acquaint each army with the scent of the other and trick them into thinking they'd lived together their whole lives. I tried introducing them again, wearing thick leather gloves. Immediate attack by Cleo. She'd obviously been using the other gerbils' scent as a way to better identify her enemies. I tried the cage-switch method for awhile longer.
One night, I timidly held Cleo up to her sparring buddies' cage so they could sniff one another through the metal bars. She tried to squeeze her head through and go for their throats. I pulled her back and was struck by the sharp sensation of a gerbil hanging off my finger by its teeth. I had never been bitten by a gerbil before, not seriously. It was like two rusty nails being lodged into your finger and then stuck in a vice grip. She hung on for a solid minute while I hollered and tried not to terrify my roommate, who was already afraid of rodents.
The next day I received a tetanus shot, which is never fun. I did get a cool Tazmanian Devil band-aid, though. I also developed a deep-seated hatred of my pets.
My gerbils now live in permanently separated cages. Cleo sulks in a dark corner of her tank, quietly plotting her murderous revenge on the intruders. The intruders frolick happily, playing together, bathing each other, and sleeping tightly balled together. Maybe one day they will forget about the crazed black gerbil who tried to destroy their peace and livelihood and instead remember only the giant pink hand which blesses them with sunflower seeds and cucumbers. Cleo will never forget the harbored hatred of those newcomers, who invaded her life in an attempt to steal her loneliness and relieve her of boredom. Damn them! DAMN THEM ALL!
I really want to own a cat.
brilliant! not your plight, but the writing...
ReplyDeleteThe way this post started, it looked like we are going to dwell into the details of your chosen topic. But it was brilliantly taken to another level with Gerbils and your pets (peeve?).
ReplyDeletePS- Did I mention, had I read the title of your post, I wouldn't have written the first line of my comment? :p