Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a rodent hater per se. When I was a child my very first pet was a little black and white mouse called Fred. I got him from the pet shop - that this was one of the few attractions I excitingly looked forward to visiting is indicative of the lack of recreational activities in our village before the leisure centre was built. Fred came in a small metal cage with a wheel. I ended up having to remove this at bed-time due to the clatter it made as he did his rigorous nightly work-out. As Fred grew slightly bigger, I upgraded his home to a larger two-storey construction. This was made of wood and it had a sliding glass front (I think it was made from an old cupboard). One day, Fred escaped. He’d managed to open the glass front very slightly to make a gap just big enough for him to squeeze through, and off he’d gone. We thought we’d seen the last of him but left his cage there with the door wide open, just in case. He did actually come back: a day later, there he was fidgeting around in the sawdust as usual. Fred eventually died in a freak accident. We had just moved home, and he was temporarily transferred back into his small metal cage while we got things sorted. Somebody left the cage on a window sill, and the window was wide open. During the night it rained heavily, and the cage and contents got soaked. Fred either drowned or died of hypothermia. This was an unfortunate and upsetting episode that could have easily been avoided.
Why my tropical fish tank still gives me nightmares.
Where are the pets in working-class women’s autobiographies?
Pets and social class.
To cut a long story short: