(Written Dec. 7, 2007)

I hope this doesn’t change things between us…
I have to get something off my chest.

It’s been haunting me for some time now, and the only way to get this dark stain off my soul
is to come clean with it. so here goes…..

I used to be a hamster slayer. like buffy with vampires, except it was me with small furry rodents. now please understand that I did not do it purposefully. but at least 4 different hamsters met their maker while in my care. I understand if this has changed your perception of me… but let me explain.

My first hamster. soft and chubby, with fur the color of honey. I got him for my 8th birthday.
Mama and I went to the pet store to pick out my new pet. That one, I said to her scanning all  the little hamsters scurry around behind the glass.

We bought my new friend a stately 2 story cage and even a plastic exercise ball. Carrying him home inside his cardboard carrier, I could hardly contain my excitement. I decided to name him “Troubles” after my best friend’s golden retriever. At the time, I had no way of foreshadowing the irony of that name.

At home, Troubles settled into his new digs complete with cedar shavings and little ladders to carry him from one level to another. Compared to his last overcrowded living arrangements,
‘ol Troubles thought he had finally made it to easy street.

Wanting to be a good hamster mother, I decided it was time for Troubles to get some exercise. I scooped my chubby little hand into his cage, picked him up and placed him inside the clear plastic roll-y ball.

Down the hall he went, bumping into wall as he figured out how to navigate the “bubble of freedom” where he now found himself. Without warning, a dark shadow fell across his path.
It was Punkin, my beloved orange tomcat. To me, Punkin was a ball of fluff and sweetness
but to poor Troubles, he was the grim reaper with whiskers.

Trouble’s plump little hamster legs move quickly to escape the cat, but his bubble was cumbersome and prevented him from squeezing into a small space to hide. Punkin stalked the plastic ball as I stood idly by , thinking Troubles was safe from harm. Thinking back, it breaks my heart to think of the fear I caused for that poor little creature.

Before I knew what was happening, Punkin, with years of rodent demolition under his belt,
slammed the plastic ball into the side of the staircase with his paw. The door popped open and in a split second, he had my poor Troubles in his mouth.

I screamed the sort of scream reserved only for ax murderer movies and my father came running from the kitchen. He quickly took stock of the situation and grabbed punkin by the shoulders. OUT! he yelled. OUT! as Punkin clamped down harder on his new prize. I stood there, completely traumatized, as I watched my oldest friend in the world, slowly squeezing the life out of my newest friend in the world.

When the madness was over, Punkin was banished to the outdoors, and Troubles was wrapped in a newspaper coffin and buried. I cried nonstop into my Raggedy Ann pillowcase.
How could this have happened?

That night, before bed, mama put Trouble’s hamster mansion in my closet. “I just can’t look at it” I told her. We’ll get you a new one honey, she told me. But my guilt over what had happened was consuming.

Eventually, Troubles was replaced by another hamster named… Troubles 2.
Ahh yes, wasn’t I a creative child?  And Troubles 2, Troubles 3, and Troubles 4 all met their maker in a similar fashion to their original namesake. I would feed them, play with them, and being an absent minded little girl, I would accidently leave the door to hamster mansion wide open. Each would escape, never to be seen again.

well, sort of. I’d call mama frantic that my hamster had escaped and she’d comfort me,
saying “They just went to live with their hamster family in the woods” By Troubles 4, I was sure we had a whole little community of escaped hamsters in our backyard. but what mama withheld from me until I was years older, was that almost every single time, a few days after an escape, she would look outside and see Punkin trotting proudly across the yard with a fat and furry little hamster in his mouth.

He was the hamster grim reaper, and time and time again, I was his unknowing accomplice.
I was Melissa, the hamster slayer. May the truth set me free.

M