I Dig

There once was a gerbil, whose name I forget. He lived in a little glass cage in my bedroom when I was ten years old. In terms of scale, it pretty much equated to a home the size of a football stadium, for you or for me.

In the cage, the gerbil had food, water, a running wheel and tubes in which to climb and -- if the mood took him -- frolic. He had a companion in the cage, whose name I also forget. Covering the floor was a luxurious padding of cedar chips, two to three inches deep, as required, according to the bag, for optimal small-animal comfort and hygiene.

He was well-cared for.