They never seemed to know it, but their names were George and Martha. They came in a plain white carton that looked like Chinese takeout.This was after I had practically died from scarlet fever. Nobody told me they were coming. My dad came into my room, carrying the carton, which swayed weirdly, dangling from its little metal handle. He didn't say anything, just set the carton down on my night table, where it danced back and forth. I sat up gingerly; I still felt like a plastic bag full of water. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, and had just worked the lid of the carton open when my dad reappeared, carrying a big bag stuffed with cedar shavings. I peeked into the carton, and they peeked up at me, sitting back on their haunches and sniffing, with their little paws cupped under their chins. "Gerbils," I said. R.I.P., George and Martha by Mel Brennan				ALSO: Hop to the West Coast Boss for a different angle Suck, Don't Blow Jane Austen, The Oldest Woman in Show Business Ask the Inpatients: Vox Pops at Harborview Hospital.
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