The Gerbil We Found By The Canal - Artist's ImpressionWe were walking by the banks of the Grand Canal on Wednesday night when the Jaffa Cake stopped dead and pointed to the base of a tree. "Look at the little mouse!" There, stopped dead and staring back at him, was a blond, fluffy gerbil*. We crept closer and the gerbil stood on his hind legs, sniffing the air. He looked lost. Someone's pet, escaped or, more likely, "set free". Poor little skite. His treeside urchin act hinted that he might not be too adept at fending for or feeding himself. Never mind the neighbourhood cats - canal rats are mean.
"Have you any chocolate?" I asked the Jaffa Cake. Rodents love chocolate. He rummaged in his coat pocket and came up with an orange creme. I broke off a few crumbs and scattered them on the grass in front of the gerbil, clicking my tongue to call him over. He wasn't scared, just wary. The Jaffa Cake was all on for taking him home. "He'll bite" I cautioned, "and we have nowhere to keep him". I sounded like my mother. I sounded like everyone's fucking mother. So we fed him the orange creme, and left him be. A man cycling by stopped and asked what we were looking at. We must have looked odd, crouched over by the bank, clicking. "It's someone's pet gerbil" I explained, "a cute little fella". "He won't last long with the rats" the stranger counseled. "I know that, fucker!" I said, except I didn't because that would have been rude. I wanted to. "I know" I said, "so we're giving him a fine last meal". He cycled on, and the whoosh of his wheels on the tarmac sent the gerbil scuttling off into the rushes.
*To be fair to him, you don't expect to see pet gerbils rummaging around in the rushes by the banks of the Grand Canal. He's not thick or anything. He didn't, say, suggest that it might be a vole when I shot the mouse thing down. This post and the last might suggest that he's some kind of flatulent moron. He's not. He's very clever and fragrant, and he has a lovely beard. He spent many of his formative years in Tanzania and so knows his heffalumps from his woozles, but I suspect is a bit Stephanie when it comes to domesticated vermin.
"Have you any chocolate?" I asked the Jaffa Cake. Rodents love chocolate. He rummaged in his coat pocket and came up with an orange creme. I broke off a few crumbs and scattered them on the grass in front of the gerbil, clicking my tongue to call him over. He wasn't scared, just wary. The Jaffa Cake was all on for taking him home. "He'll bite" I cautioned, "and we have nowhere to keep him". I sounded like my mother. I sounded like everyone's fucking mother. So we fed him the orange creme, and left him be. A man cycling by stopped and asked what we were looking at. We must have looked odd, crouched over by the bank, clicking. "It's someone's pet gerbil" I explained, "a cute little fella". "He won't last long with the rats" the stranger counseled. "I know that, fucker!" I said, except I didn't because that would have been rude. I wanted to. "I know" I said, "so we're giving him a fine last meal". He cycled on, and the whoosh of his wheels on the tarmac sent the gerbil scuttling off into the rushes.
*To be fair to him, you don't expect to see pet gerbils rummaging around in the rushes by the banks of the Grand Canal. He's not thick or anything. He didn't, say, suggest that it might be a vole when I shot the mouse thing down. This post and the last might suggest that he's some kind of flatulent moron. He's not. He's very clever and fragrant, and he has a lovely beard. He spent many of his formative years in Tanzania and so knows his heffalumps from his woozles, but I suspect is a bit Stephanie when it comes to domesticated vermin.
