Open Writing

It's only 4ins long and hasn’t been a member of our family for a week, yet already my husband is making a fool of himself over Houdini, our baby hamster.

After our last pet catastrophe, when one of our guinea pigs decided to add his mate’s head to his diet, I vowed never again. Thank goodness I discovered his voracious appetite in time. How often had I snuggled his warm little nose under my chin, innocently unaware of his carnivorous thoughts that were probably festering between his perky little ears.

I resisted our youngest daughter’s lies I’ve heard before, ‘I’ll feed him, clean him, trail the sawdust home, etc.’ But a hamster seemed the only answer when she accused me of providing all our other children, except her, with a baby sister or brother.

I put my foot down concerning his living quarters. In spite of the tears, Houdini will have to be satisfied with his bungalow. I refuse to be bullied into buying one of the plastic two-tier hyper-expensive, upstairs, downstairs residences, one mortgage is enough.

Then of course it needs an exercise wheel. I rush with everyone else when it wakes up, to watch it pedal frantically, but it seems so undignified. Like circus elephants being forced to sit on chairs. ‘Look how happy he looks,’ daughter reassures.

Admittedly it has an open-mouthed glazed-eyed expression, but who wouldn’t after all that treadling. Occasionally he misses a step and gets catapulted to the side of the cage. Mind you when the wheel has been creaking continuously for an hour, I have to suppress an urge to nudge him off, when no one’s looking, hoping for a non serious coma.

‘He needs a hamster fun boot,’ daughter suggested. This item is an orange plastic ‘Mother Shoe’ boot with a hole marked ‘in’ at the toe and one marked ‘out’ at the heel. Beware! Unless hamster can read this brings no joy.

The other night my husband, whose only concession to pet pampering is to put his slippers on when he kicks the dog out, surprised us all when he sauntered into the dining room carrying Houdini carry-cot style in his plastic boot. Two minutes later hamster is lying shamelessly on his back giggling like Esther Rantzen while dad tickles his tum.

Alas – then Houdini made his first mistake, he crawled out of the hole marked ‘in.’ Well he tried to, but it was like squeezing a tube of toothpaste. All the contents slipped to the back, no matter how he squirmed and squeaked, he was well and truly stuck. Our daughter hasn’t screamed so much since I refused to let her wear her new split skirt for school. ‘Oh daddy – get it out,’ she pleaded, as poor Houdini, sadly not living up to his name, swung head first from the boot pawing the air like a trapezist whose partner is late.

Then it happened. Suddenly pet-loving dad is dancing around with boot and hamster dangling from his finger. ‘Yaroooo . . . !’ and other inspired fractures of language scorched the air, but hammy’s teeth were firmly sunk in flesh. He let go of bloodied finger after a bounce on the floor and crawled quickly away, as quickly as he could that is with a boot attached to his rear.

We tried everything to rescue him. Dad sawed with a bread knife while I covered animal’s eyes with a pot towel. No luck – and scissors made no impact either. Eventually my husband snapped it in two with the pliers – the boot I mean.

We were all extremely happy. But what happens now – will he get blood poisoning? Should we have given him something for the pain?

And perhaps my husband ought to have an injection too!