Being Bested by Vermin

One could call me an animal lover, no...one who likes animals. Actually, scratch that. Animals who are tame. Yes, thats it. So I like animals who are accepted in a place with four walls with a door and a lock. So this excludes a lot of animals. But that is also wrong, since I think one who has mice or other vermin for that matter for a pet needs therapy of some sorts*, or possibly they are practicing for their future job as the person who tests things on animals. Yet they are some-what adorable, don't you think? Looking at me like they want to recite me a damn shakespearean sonnet. NO, you belong in the fields. Not in a cage, nor between my walls making scary noises. Stop wiggling that tiny little nose of yours, squeaking at me thinking I know your mouse-speak. NO. DO NOT WANT.


(this last paragraph has given me ameliorative progress in figuring out my deep seeded hate for mice. Since the last time I have spoken about them, progress was not positive, but progress indeed it was...of realizing how deep seeded it was)


I truly still don't understand my irrational behavior and hate towards mice and other fluffy miniature creatures of the sort. I guess we should take a trip into my childhood.....


-insert a smoke monster type cut scene minus the whole, death of Mr.Eko and subsequently turning into Locke and having an epic battle with Jack Sheppard on a rocky cliff and fail-whaling off of it after being owned by the guy who cries too much. So, just the smoke, are we clear? PS: I kind of like LOST)


As a small child I was by far too acquiescent to even attempt to stand up to my parents. I followed the rules and didn't make a fuss. So ergo, I got almost everything I asked for if it was reasonable, attainable, and acceptable among the round table that was my mother, father and sister. (and sometimes, my cat Sally had a say in certain things)


I remember vaugely that I was jealous of my cousin because she had a gerbil. Yes, I had a cat but I was young and all little girls need cute fluffy things in our life. (Now a days I go for the men who have facial hair, everything stems from childhood my friends) so I walked up to my parents after doing my homework, clearing my throat to get their attention, "I've been a good girl, and I think I should be allowed to have two hamsters." I boasted and being so as-a-matter-of-factly since they shot down the gerbil idea because they were worried I'd become so pre-occupied with it I would forget about Sally.


So why two hamsters instead you say? Because gerbils are relatively bigger than them, and gerbils need more up-keep, you can take gerbils out of the cage and they barely bite and can walk around freely (so I've seen, my cousin treated it as a cat). Also, it would turn into my cats next meal. Something caged, and that would stay that way was a much better choice.


We went to the pet store and I got two, I remember the man who sold me my hamsters. I thought he looked like Randy Savage on a bad-day. I swear still to this day he ate most of the animals, then crossed them off the inventory as 'SOLD' because it looked like a place where animals went to die. I named them Luke and Leia. Since they were brother and sister....and naturally had enough sexual tension in that tank to cut with a knife. We didn't do our 'hamster 101' research. They screw as often if not more than rabbits. And produce just as fast.


Within a month we had a gaggle ton of hamsters, I felt like I had my own little animal farm. It was like real-life farm-pet-zombie-mafiawar-slowly-turning-into-plants-vs-zombies-ville, but more hands on. And real. Speaking of zombies, George A. Romero would of been proud of the epic shit that went down in that tank. One day I came home and the Albino of the bunch, snowball ate two of its brothers, its mother and injured its father. I should of re named Luke Bruce Cambell since he was arm-less. Sadly, I couldn't find a mini chainsaw to attach to its aforementioned arm hole.**


My cage looked like the zombies won. I scolded snowball and he tried to bite me whilst I was cleaning up the dead hamster carcasses, and yes I had gloves on. I didn't want to get any hamster aids, duh. I knew he instinctively tried to bite me so I would join his zombie-albino-hamster-army. He was literally an army of one.
After cleaning up the mess I thoughtlessly put a piece of cardboard to split the tank in two. I was young and never thought of the idea:


"Hey...he just inhaled the stomach of his brother, bit off the head of his other brother and started to feast on his Dad. He could NEVER chew through cardboard! Golly geez!"


Then,
OH
MY
LAMB.


I woke up from my slumber to see a bloody mess first thing in the morning, snowball nowhere in sight, the rest of his family strewn across the bloody cardboard he bit through. I yelled out sounding like a mixture of chewbacca, a goose, and an elk. Gasping for air, I quickly found my cat and checked her to see if she had any nibble marks on her.


She was unscathed thankfully.


I was defeated.


I told my parents I would take care of them. This was my test, to further my animal purchases, so much I could even possibly adding a dog to the family. As I look back I was like Draco, I had a mission. But my mission wasn't trying to kill Dumbledore and failing because I actually have some goodness in me, or just frankly because I was a pussy, and was a lot of talk. That shit is all on him.


(Yes, I do partake in watching Harry Potter from time to time, shove it)


I failed, me, myself. because I couldn't control these animals. Damn you snowball. Damn you to animal purgatory. I had to build up all the strength I had in me, and the rest of my dignity to tell my parents of the epic 24 hour zombie take over that happened in my 30x12x12 hamster tank of terror.


Needless to say, I think that scarred me for life, and changed my way of looking at vermin.
Oh yeah, a mouse also bit me as a child. Little bastard.


*I just made myself sound like I was in need of therapy, and actually after the massacre of Luke, Leia and their love children I should have talked to someone about it. That was messed up. I always wondered if Manson, Gein, Bundy, Dahmer or Gacy went through a traumatic animal experience.***


**sorry for saying arm hole, that sounds very disgusting and not a good visual. Especially if this is late-night reading for you.


*** I am in no way as balls crazy as aforementioned psycho killers. But everything stems from something, I say. Little Gacy could of seen his dog get shot by his father because it broke both of its legs and they didn't have enough money to bring him to the vet. And like a ticking time bomb his crazy exploded in his brain like one of those cheap fireworks that last 4 seconds, the kind you get at your local pump-n-munch. I think way too much.