Emmaprovement Continues...

Like most women, my flatmate, Little Emma and I have a pretty rich fantasy life, but instead of grand weddings or planning to have our babies at the same time so they can be friends, Little and I are more concerned about our respective future canines.

While Little shifts between a rescue Greyhound or the more elegant Saluki, mine are always Irish Setters, two or three, chosen because they're the exact shade of my hair. I have this vision of us walking the dogs through some field; me, fat with some toff's heir, the afternoon sun lighting up the Setters and my long auburn hair.

I wasn't really interested in getting another pet. Little and I once seriously considered finding a fat, ginger cat - which we would've name Boris, after Boris Johnson, our secret crush - but we never got around to it.

But then, on Saturday, a day like any other, everything changed. Little and I were walking by Regent's Park, when she froze.

"A rat," she yelped.
And for a second it did look like a rat - possibly a baby - quivering on the grassy area near the street. I stomped my foot, trying to get it to run away, but it wouldn't budge, so I bent down for a closer look.

"I think it's a gerbil," I said.

I put down my hand, and it crawled tentatively into my palm.

"Someone must have abandoned it," said Little. And my heart broke right then and there, imagining the heartless mum, probably right now telling her children how their beloved gerbil had "run away".

The rest of the day is a little fuzzy. I remember we went to the pet store immediately, to confirm Gordon (named after our new secret lust object, Gordon Brown) was, in fact, a gerbil. The pet store didn't know for sure, but they did say it wasn't a rat, which was good enough for me.

Walking home with food and temporary bedding, Little said it would probably be a good idea to give Gordon to the local primary school or find a neighbourhood kid who wanted a pet. I murmured in approval, but I knew. Even Little wasn't going to tear Gordon and me apart. This small trembling ball of fur, this wee sweet thing, well, it needed me.

Little left for a business trip and came back to find Gordon totally set up in a three floor cage called 'the Castle', complete with house and exercise wheel, and an overflowing food bowl.

"What about the dogs?", she asked, exasperated.
"Well, they'll just have to cope with an older brother," I said.

Even now, Little pretends to hate Gordon, but I've found her twice - a bit tipsy - hand in the cage, trying to pet him. But Gordon, being a gerbil, doesn't like to be fondled.

"He won't even play with me," she whined.
"He's had a traumatic experience. He's getting used to us," I explained.