I've begged my parents for a dog ever since I was five years old. I'm not even joking. I actually have a homemade book from first grade that I somehow stapled together, explaining -- with great spelling and grammar for a grubby kid like myself -- why I wanted, no, deserved a dog of my own. Instead, my parents ended up stalling for eight years with a new excuse every time I asked, and that's how I ended up with Professor Nub for Christmas my freshman year.
Professor Nub, or Nubby, as we so fondly called him (don't ask about the name -- that's what happens when you let your five-year-old brother name your pet), was a gerbil. One that pooped a lot. On my hands. Anyways, I was a little disappointed, to say the least; after all, a small rodent was nothing compared to the cute fluffball of a puppy that I was expecting.
But I told myself that I would endure the shenanigans of Nubby. However, it turned out to be a little harder than I expected. It was the first day of Nubby's residence in the Palazzolo household, and my sister and I hadn't held him yet, still a little freaked out by the idea of holding a small, wriggling being in our hands. We decided that it would be interesting to open the door to his cage, just so we could reach inside and try to touch him. In a flash, Nubby leaped like a glorious escape artist out of the cage, skittering frantically on my coffee table. He then proceeded to slide right off the table and onto the ground (which was carpet, thank God). My mom started screaming and retreated to the kitchen along with my sister. My baby brother was stomping around the living room, and I hoped that he wouldn't crush Nubby. And then, I gathered up all my courage and grabbed the little sucker off of the carpet, dumping him back in the cage.
That marked the start of Nubby's role as the family escape artist. Everytime I opened the door of his cage to play with him, he would, without fail, fling his little gerbil body onto the floor and skitter behind our Christmas tree to chew on the carpet and do God-knows-what back there. This usually ended with my family forcing me to be the one to have to crawl behind the tree in the middle of gerbil droppings to retrieve Nubby, not exactly the most enjoyable activity, as you might imagine. He also liked to roam the fireplace, where we left his cage. It was usually covered with my brother's toys, and there was nothing funnier than seeing Nubby crawl through a toy house, sniffing curiously at plastic chairs and beds.
After a while, my sister got tired of taking care of Nubby, and she convinced my parents to give him away to our neighbors, where he lived until his untimely death. He was a good pet, despite the fact that he managed to chew up his plastic wheel (which he was strangely terrified of, by the way). Hopefully he's in gerbil heaven now. RIP, buddy.
That marked the start of Nubby's role as the family escape artist. Everytime I opened the door of his cage to play with him, he would, without fail, fling his little gerbil body onto the floor and skitter behind our Christmas tree to chew on the carpet and do God-knows-what back there. This usually ended with my family forcing me to be the one to have to crawl behind the tree in the middle of gerbil droppings to retrieve Nubby, not exactly the most enjoyable activity, as you might imagine. He also liked to roam the fireplace, where we left his cage. It was usually covered with my brother's toys, and there was nothing funnier than seeing Nubby crawl through a toy house, sniffing curiously at plastic chairs and beds.
After a while, my sister got tired of taking care of Nubby, and she convinced my parents to give him away to our neighbors, where he lived until his untimely death. He was a good pet, despite the fact that he managed to chew up his plastic wheel (which he was strangely terrified of, by the way). Hopefully he's in gerbil heaven now. RIP, buddy.