It was the morning of my giddy 12-year-old’s birthday slumber party, a Friday to boot. Sienna woke up feeling refreshed and valuable, ready to face the rigors of school. It was such a contrast to all those other school days that the whole household was feeling quite hopeful. I saw her off, promising to cut up the veggie plate and rent the movie she requested for her friends that night. And then I wandered into Sienna’s empty bedroom to see what needed doing. My glance happened to fall on the highboy dresser, where Blue, her new hamster, was standing at attention in her cage. “Hello sweetie,” I crooned. This is how Sienna decided to spend her birthday money this year, a mean $75. She was so surprised I actually agreed to this, since she’d been working on me for the past three years to allow her a “room” pet. Now here I was, faced with this furry little thing and its black, inquisitive eyes. Blue began to pace manically back and forth, just begging me to end her boredom. I took pity on the little bugger.
My idea was grand. Why not put Blue in the master bath? There is no furniture to crawl under, no crevices to sneak into. This way she could explore a relatively large territory without me having to corral her. She would have complete freedom to kick out her legs and satisfy her curiosity. Unfortunately, this is not how hamsters think. I did not know this at the time; the only pets I had growing up were outdoor cats. Since they pretty much had the run of the neighborhood, they did not have this insatiable need to “get away.” Blue did. Two seconds into her glorious freedom she discovered a small gap in my cabinetry, and, right under my disbelieving eyes, disappeared. It looked like a lot like you might imagine. Put her down. Watch her run to a corner. Poof. Gone.
Which left me in BIG trouble. The speed and cunning of that hamster’s escape made it pretty clear we wouldn’t be seeing Blue again, short of a miracle. Tonight was Sienna’s party. She’d been chatting up Blue on her Facebook account, and had been looking forward to “the hamster debut” for almost a week. I knew that the minute she came home from school she’d be leading an entourage up to her room. After frantically opening the cabinet and pulling out the drawers, I learned, to my dismay, that our cabinets are finished and that the hamster was now scratching around in the subfloor. Which meant I would need a crowbar or a sledgehammer to reach the rodent. Needless to say, this was not going to happen. And so, on my knees on a bathroom floor which sorely needed sweeping, I offered up a small but earnest prayer: “Dear Lord, please help me find the hamster. And forgive me, for allowing my heart to be softened by a rodent.”
After appealing to God, I then did the next best thing. I appealed to the internet. I powered up my computer and googled “lost hamster.” It was somewhat gratifying to know that I was not the first person in the history of the world to lose a hamster (albeit my daughter’s). There were several YouTube videos on the topic. Within minutes I was watching “Fluffy,” a hamster in Copenhagen, fall prey to the ultimate of all hamster traps: sunflower seeds and a bucket. It was vitalizing. I ran for the hamster cage and a bag of sunflower seeds--creatively placing them in a line from the gap to the cage, the breadcrumbs from Hansel and Gretel. Surely that hamster would get hungry and smell them. Satisfied that it was the best I could do, I securely closed the bathroom door and went about my day. Several hours later, and with several peeks into the bathroom, all of the seeds were still accounted for. I then remembered that hamsters were nocturnal. So I couldn’t realistically expect my trap to work until nightfall. Which meant that I probably wouldn’t recover the hamster before Sienna got home. Dang! It was 3:00 and I was about to be found out.
It didn’t go well. She came in the house, followed by two of her closest friends. They all pounded up the stairs to see Blue. Then she was yelling down at me: Mom! Where is my hamster? Mom! When I walked her to the bathroom—friends in tow—I was still hoping for some sort of reprieve. Maybe Blue had come back. Perhaps she had somehow even managed to close the cage door and round herself into a nap. Alas. The cage was empty and my daughter’s bewilderment turned into understanding. This was the worst. She ran to her room and burst into tears. I was officially IN THE DOGHOUSE.
I felt awful. Why was I learning her lesson for her? Don’t let the hamster out of the cage. Period. That is a lesson reserved for a child. But Blue had been growing on me. Indeed it was a delight to have her little feet tickle my arms, and I loved her cozy softness in the palm of my hand. Slowly I opened the bedroom door and found Sienna in a huddle on her bed. Tentatively, I apologize. I tell her I will set a better trap. I tell her I saw one on the internet that looked fool-proof. She is quiet, taking this all in. Then she asks me one difficult question: What happens if she doesn’t come out? I reply, full of heart: “Honey, then she’s dead.”
When my husband gets home, he goes to task. I am in the doghouse in his book, too. He devises a mouse trap that looks exactly like, well, the board game. It involves several ramps and pulleys. However, instead of a basket that comes catapulting down, his Rube Goldberg leads the hamster to the brim of the bucket from the YouTube video. He then scatters a medley of carrots, celery, and sunflower seeds up the ramp towards the bucket. At the bottom of the bucket is the pièce de résistance: peanut butter on a graham cracker. Sienna considers this move “action” and agrees to go on with her birthday party. There is still a big question (the elephant in the room) as to whether the hamster is still under the cabinet. I hadn’t heard any scurrying since early this morning, and it is possible that Blue has found another way out of the cabinet. This is worrisome, as both my husband and I envision the rodent chewing itself out somewhere else, perhaps through drywall. I recall the story a friend told me about a pair of gerbils that escaped into the walls of her last house. She said they were in those walls for years reproducing. Colonies of rogue hamsters skittering above my head throughout the night? The thought makes me shudder. Full of angst and dread, I close the bathroom door.
At 11:00 p.m., just as we are drifting off to sleep, we hear a crash. I spring off the bed and hesitate, knowing I have just seconds to act if I actually have to lunge at a hamster. I open. My mind, confused, registers that most of the food is gone, but I see nothing--no blur of activity--running away. Dare I look into the bucket? Could we have succeeded? We could! We did! Hallelujah! For there in the bucket is a monster hamster. Her cheeks are so stuffed with snacks that at first I think I’m looking at a guinea pig. Blue is caught, frozen on her two hind legs, sitting in peanut butter and gazing, dumbfounded, at me. I laugh at the sheer silliness of her. Hah! I think. I’ve outsmarted a rodent!
Relief floods through me as my husband lifts the bucket off the ground and returns Blue to her cage. This new, smarter me will not feel sorry for Blue tomorrow when she jumps on her squirrel wheel. As difficult as it is, I pledge absolutely not to succumb to her soulful, beady eyes. Quickly I grab the cage and run downstairs to my daughter and her slumber party friends, whose relief is evident by the way she exhales. She has been quite worried; she is already so attached to Blue. And here my story ends. If there is a moral, let it be this one:
No matter how pathetic the hamster seems, don’t ever let your daughter’s brand-spankin’ new birthday present out!
