Exotic Pets

There's little in the world sadder than a grown man with an exotic pet in public. An African gray parrot, say, or an iguana, or maybe a handful of ferrets. Especially when said sad guy hangs out somewhere in public with his exotic pet. Like, in front of the EatZis near my apartment.

There's this guy who, during the warmer months, would sit in front of the EatZis with his parrot, and then give everyone the stinkeye when they approached him about the parrot. But the thing is, he'd also give the stinkeye if you didn't fawn over his bird. That man irritates me. If your way of garnering attention from other people is to sit outside with your chinchilla, as if that were normal, as if everyone these days is walking around with a chinchilla or a box turtle or a hedgehog -- you've got some serious likeability issues. Having these exotic pets, and then parading them in public in your very own Kook Parade? I mean, come on.

So all that was to say that Tuesday, I became what I hate most. I was a man with an exotic pet in public.

Four, actually. My friend Scott who volunteers with me at the National Zoo's Invertebrate House brought me four Australian Walking Sticks in a little plastic critter carrier. Which means I had to ride home on the Metro with a clear box full of bugs in my lap.

I'm shy. Maybe a little reserved. At least in public. I like to be in control of any social situations I might find myself in. This is very difficult to accomplish when one is holding a clear box full of bugs on the Metro. I think because on some level I broke a societal rule by showing up in public with insects on purpose, society broke the rules right back and waved good-bye to my person space as they crowded around me, oohing and ahhing and ewwing as they all tried to peer inside. The longer I stood on the Metro with my case full of exotic pets, the more slaps in the face I received from karma. The questions got less and less about the bugs and more and more about me personally:

"What are those?"
"Where do they come from?"
"Are you going to take them for a walk when you get home?"
"I think I just saw one poo."
"You gonna teach 'em tricks?"
"Can you eat 'em?"
"If you were my husband, there's no way I'd let you in the house with those!"
"Your wife is going to have a fit."
"Hey, buddy, you'd better be ready to sleep on the couch!"
"How long you been married?"

Other people, people who want to share, but find they have no outlet, that's probably why they hang out with their exotic pets in public. It's their socially inappropriate way of saying, "Hey, I'm up for anything. I'm holding a snake! In public! And I'm wearing cords!"

Heaven forbid I ever become one of those people on purpose. But I am now the owner of some somewhat exotic pets.

So the Australian Walking Sticks are phasmids -- a fancy way of saying that they like to look like things they are. Like leaves or sticks or bark. The other cool things about my gals (Molly, Alice, Tamara, and Grace Jones) is that they reproduce parthenogenically. Basically, they never have to have sex with a male ever to make more of themselves. This is good news for militant lesbians; however, cloning like that can have problems. Any genetic issues the mom has are passed directly on to all the eggs, since the eggs are exact copies of the mom. Guys may not always be useful, but we're good for randoming up the genes, and that's a nifty way to keep things somewhat chlorinated in the gene pool.

Once I learn how to take pictures of things other than the inside of my pocket with my cell phone, I'll see if I can't post some pictures of my new brood. And, if I work things out right, in a year or so I'll have enough to TAKE OVER THE WORLD!!!

Or at least freak Zach the fuck out.