Ge(rbil) Guavara
I would often leave my cat home alone and then feel terrible about it. It reminded me of how my parents would leave me locked in the apartment growing up. Yes, I was sad, but at least I had a TV. So I thought I’d buy my cat Sooka something to look at, something to keep her entertained while I’m away.
I figured watching a mouse or gerbil doing its thing in a glass tank would be a cat’s equivalent of reality TV, just with fewer plot twists and only one cast member. “Keeping Up with a Gerbil.” So I bought a gerbil. Named her Babette.
Now, I know there are people out there who see gerbils as their fur babies, make gerbil outfits, throw gerbil birthday parties. But where I come from, the attitude towards pet animals is more pragmatic. They are loved. And they are there to serve humans — not the other way around. For me, a pet gerbil was a glorified rat that I keep fed and housed, not a soulmate. What I’m saying is – Babette was not getting a spot on a Christmas card.
So I named my gerbil Babette after Brigitte Bardot’s haircut in a French movie. The gerbil didn’t answer to Babette — or any other name. Moreover, Babette was a raging maniac, with this Hulk Hogan-like chutzpah.
Instead of being cute, chewing on toys, and running on a wheel for the cat’s amusement, Babette would attack the toys and knock over the spinning wheel, body-slamming it like it was her own ‘Macho Man’ Randy Savage.
One night, I woke up to a weird knocking sound. I’ve heard it before but always thought it was neighbors across the street. This time I got up to investigate. Turns out, Babette had been contemplating escape. She knocked over the spinning wheel and used it as a step-stool, propping herself up towards the flip-top hatch on the roof of the tank. The knocking sound was the sound of Babette ramming her tiny head against the hatch to pop it open.
After that, I started putting weights on top of the lid. It didn’t faze Babette. Night after night she’d resume her Shawshank Redemption. I felt guilt and anxiety. I did not know what to do. Watching her fight so hard, I started to admire her determination, even envy it. Sometimes I wished she were my older sister — someone fierce enough to stand up to anyone, someone I could have teamed up with when I was stuck in that apartment as a kid. Together, we’d show our parents!
And the cat I brought the gerbil for? Sooka could not care less! She didn’t wish to keep up with the gerbil.
Babette. Maybe it’s just a phase. Maybe I can fix her. Maybe I can channel her rage into something productive. So I entered her in a hamster derby. Turns out, Babette was really good at hamster ball. She was fierce, a pint-size gladiator. She zoomed down the track, leaving behind a trail of ‘protest poopings’ — as if each one was a statement against the tyranny of domestication. Babette probably thought she was riding her little ball from captivity into the wild. ‘Freedom!’ Only, every race ends with her back in gerbil prison.
She hated that tank, she hated that wheel, she hated the cat, and she hated me. And I loved her for that. Babette was not a spectacular in the game of life. She had agency, she had power, she had will. She had character and grit. And Babette’s determination paid off.
One day I came home to find the room surprisingly quiet. The aquarium tank was empty. Babette was gone. She knocked off the weight that kept the tank door shut and ran off into the wild to be never seen again.
I like to imagine Babette is out there, leading a rodent revolution — rallying an army of gerbils and hamster to overthrow their plastic prisons. As we speak, Bebette’s minions are knocking over wheels, busting through cages, chewing escape holes in screen doors. Maybe one day I’ll look out the window and see her, leading her army, tiny beret askew, a proud fugitive turned legend. Ge(rbil) Guevara.
And then there’s my cat Sooka, lounging on the windowsill, completely unfazed by it all. I bet she knew from the start that buying a gerbil to entertain her was a terrible idea. I guess she’s always been smarter than me.