So I was just sitting here at my desk today when I felt something wiggle in my pants. (Near my knee, I mean. What were you thinking?)

I nervously thought that maybe there was some creepy-crawly thing in my pants, but decided that it much have just been a crease flattening out or something, because really, how would I have gotten a creature in my pants anyway? (It's not like I've been up to any exciting extracurricular activities in nearby shrubbery.)

So I went back to what I was doing until I heard this weird, very quiet buzzing. I thought, Is that coming from... my pants??

I didn't think it could be, but I was starting to get paranoid, so I took off my pants and shook them a bit just to prove to myself that there was nothing hiding in them. Then I put them back on. But as soon as I did, something crawled AND buzzed and felt distinctly bug-shaped in my pants. At which point I made a little yelping noise and took them off, yet again.

I shook the pants out again and this time a little insect fell to the floor. I took a closer look at it, and it turned out to be a baby bee. I love bees, and I was worried that I'd hurt it. But when I blew on it a bit, it perked up its wings and flew across the room to the window and I lost track of it.

Later I found it crawling up and down the window repeatedly and figured I should try to take it outside to the garden, even though I'd become rather fond of it since its ejection from my pants. I got it to crawl onto my hand, and it sat there, strangely trusting, not trying to fly away, just exploring the crevices between my fingers. I was mesmerized by its delicate thrumming, by the way it nuzzled my hand like the gerbils sometimes do. We went down to the courtyard and I released it onto some violets with a little coaxing.

I hope it'll be okay. I worry about the bees. I was really glad to meet one today, though from now on I hope they stay out of my pants.

So, a couple weeks ago one of my gerbils was sick, and I didn't want to talk about it. She wasn't eating anything, or chewing or running around or doing any normal gerbil things. Mostly sleeping and looking miserable. And I was worried and upset but also grumpy, because I thought, great, now I'm going to have to take her to the vet and people are going to think I'm crazy again for taking her to the vet.

People tend to react one of two ways when I say I'm taking a gerbil to the vet. They tell me I'm nuts, or they tell me that of course it's perfectly reasonable. Lately they've been telling me the latter, mainly because whenever it comes up I'm highly defensive about it, prefacing my statement with "You're going to think I'm crazy, but..." so they feel compelled to say "no, no, not at all," with varying degrees of sincerity.

During this last incident, one of the people who thought I was crazy but was being really sweet about it anyway said (after I explained that I needed to get the gerbil to the vet before she starved to death), "You're a much better person than I am, because I would just go to the pet store and get a new one. I'd even get one that looked the same and give it the same name." Trying to comprehend this (because I don't think it actually has anything to do with how good a person I am), I explained to myself, she thinks about gerbils like I think about fish. Because that's what I'd do with a fish. Not that I'd ever really deliberately owned a fish. I'd rescued a pair one time that a roommate was going to flush down the toilet because she was tired of taking care of them, but when they died a few months later I wasn't terribly bothered.

But then I reminded myself that I'm not even that apathetic about fish anymore. After going to Colorado and being mesmerized by my hosts' salt-water aquarium, I ended up fairly in love with some of those fish. And even an anemone.

The anemone was kind of a drama queen. It was tank-cleaning time, and I was trying to stay out of the way while Sarah squeegied down the inside of the glass. Now, from what I understand, when they're accidentally poked with the squeegie the anemones generally curl up a little and get out of the way. This time, however, the anemone in question began rapidly curling in on itself until, in under ten seconds, it had disappeared huffily into the sand. I could almost hear it lamenting "WHY ME!?!? WHY!????" as it made its dramatic exit.

We stared, baffled, at the spot where it had been. We wondered if it was dead, but it didn't seem like a gentle poke ought to cause anything more than a bit of anemone disgruntlement. The anemone's best friend, a clownfish named Marlin, looked baffled too. His favorite activity is generally to rub up against the anemone, and once it was gone he just swam around the area looking forlorn.

Eventually the anemone began to poke out again, little by little. I feel like it wanted to say "Fine, I'll come back, but if you're EVER mean to me again I will RUN AWAY and NEVER COME BACK." Marlin was ecstatic and immediately started cuddling vigorously with the anemone. No doubt he was also saying something along the lines of, "ANEMONE!! DON'T EVER LEAVE ME AGAAIN! I was SO WORRIED!!"

So that is how I got to be fond of the anemone. And let's face it, if I can empathize with a melodramatic anemone, it's no wonder I take my gerbils to the vet. I would probably take the anemone to the vet if it were sick and if there were such a thing as an anemone vet. Which is probably why I shouldn't be allowed to own fish or invertebrates.

Someday I will own a cat, and people will think it's perfectly normal when I take it to the vet.

The gerbil got better, by the way. And she's learned how to hang upside-down, like a bat, from the wire top of her cage.

earlier -- later