Hamster Tails

The first hamster to join our family was a birthday gift to Jane. The cute little fella promptly bit her on the finger, snarled at the birthday guests, then shortly thereafter pooped itself to death. ( a stress-induced hamster condition, more commonly known as "wet tail": sounds kinder than "shat-himself-to-death" syndrome. Four more hamsters followed in short order, half of whom succumbed to the dreaded illness, one escaped via a lego hamster play structure, and one which remains at large, missing in action and presumed dead. All this in a matter of three weeks.

Being a sensible woman who knows when she's been beaten, I packaged up those cleverly marketed solitary confinement hamster jails and shoved them into the garage to sell next summer to some unsuspecting well-meaning mother.

Ahhh, how soon one forgets the lessons in life. Arianna has been working hard on her times tables, and her supportive and enthusiastic auntie offered her a challenge: Master that 3 times today, and I'll bring you a treat from the city. Well, there's no greater motivater than appealing to the great consumer monster inside my first born. After hours of deliberation, she stumbled upon a lightbult moment- I COULD GET A HAMSTER!

Since I have given birth four times, there has been considerable blood loss and brain cell shrinkage so I admit that this seemed to me to be a brilliant plan, since we had all the equipment at hand.

Arianna read up on hamsters: how to avoid the before mentioned syndrome, what to feed, what not the feed, how to minimize stress in little Archie's life, and maximize his potential for a long and vibrant life span. It was decided that Archie would be safe up on the bookshelf in her bedroom, with the door shut, to keep out Mindy and Flo (the cats) who would probably perceive Archie as a thoughtfully prepared hot lunch. Arianna was to be the primary care-giver, it being clear that most of the other Hildebrands had homicidal tendencies. It seemed fool proof.

We even had a support group, of sorts. The gift giver of the first unfortunate hamster calls daily to ask whether I have yet killed the hamster. I'm sure that she asks with the kindest of intentions, desiring quality of life for rodents everywhere. Early this afternoon I received my first accountability phone call of the day. Heart racing, I flew up the stairs, realizing that Arianna had been responsible enough to close her bedroom door in the morning but that I had re-opened it, thinking that she was hiding the deplorable mess in there from me, and that I had better at least let air circulate in the squalor. (see above, re limited neurological function).

A cat lay sleepily on the bed. The hamster cage lay bottom up beside the book shelf, shavings and carrot snacks in a trail on the carpet, hamster wheel dangling precariously. The evidence suggested a scuffle, a type of cat and mouse game where Mindy's paws will have swung threateningly through the bars of the cage. A small furry form lay motionless in the wreckage.


But wait- is that the rise and fall of a tiny chest that I see? I haven't the courage to put that cage right, upset him all over again and probably set off the series of events which will inevitably end with a poopy-bummed, stressed-out, heaven-bound hamsty.