A month or so ago, Matthew decided he was responsible enough for his own pet. Last year he wanted his own hamster, and after I went over the responsibilities of caring for his own pet (namely, being responsible for cleaning up its turds) Matthew quickly backed down and decided he wasn't old enough to clean up turds. However, last month Matthew decided he now was old enough to clean up turds, and that made me smile with pride. It's not every day you get to realize your child is finally old enough to tidy the feces of another species.
Off we went to the shop to find a suitable hamster and habitat (cage is an outdated term reeking of cruelty and boredom, while habitat is reminiscent of nature and happy pets and helps separate you from your money in a more efficient manner) with warnings to Matthew that he may not find the pet he wants that day. It could take days, weeks, months to find that little rodent with a sparkle in his eye that wants to be your best friend for the next two to three years, I told him. Matthew nodded with understanding and seriousness. We were only looking. Five minutes later we had a hamster in a box and I was filling out forms promising to be a diligent and thoughtful pet owner to our newest furry friend, and if it died I could return it for a new one provided it wasn't hamstercide. A habitat was picked out, an unnecessary amount of rodent supplies tossed on top of it, and we were off home to set up our newest addition.
Matthew called him Chewie, a nickname his grandfather had given him. Chewie was given a place in Matthew's room, and we gave him treats and a bit of space for the first few days so we wouldn't overwhelm his little, tiny face.
A few days later Chewie got sick. We gave him medication, and water around the clock, and he seemed to perk up a bit. I thought we were in the clear, he was running around in his wheel, eating and drinking, and was doing general hamster things like shoving everything he could in his cheeks to carry it 4 inches to the left in his cage, and spitting everything back out again. After his quick hiatus from being sick Chewie again got sick, and this time it was much worse. I stayed up two nights giving him meds and pedialyte from an eye dropper every two hours, holding him in my hand to keep him warm, doing a full-out bedside vigil any Italian mother would be proud of. In my pregnant and hormonal state I started to see this as a warm-up session to the newborn we'll have in June. Granted, I won't try to cheer up my newborn with sunflower seeds but you get the point. I was tired.
Chewie died in my hands at 4am Monday morning. After many tears, some wailing and snotty sobs I put Chewie in a little box in his cage and tried to decide what to do. I woke my husband, crying and sobbing still, asking what to do. He told me to go to sleep...so he could go to sleep. I cleaned out Chewie's cage and sterilised everything, the occasional sniffle and whimper leading back to tears and sobs. I spent the rest of the early morning dreading the inevitable hammer I had to drop on my sunny 9 year old. I wasn't about to tell Matthew his hamster died and then send him off to school in the morning. I was overtired and emotional, and decided to tell Matthew I was taking Chewie to the vet. That could buy me some time in deciding how to tell Matthew his brand-new pet, the only pet he's ever been in charge of, his very first pet ever up and died.
Matthew eyed the box suspiciously in the morning, and asked where Chewie was. I said "He's in the box, I'm taking him to the vet. Get dressed for school" and tried to make the morning as normal as possible. The fact that there was a dead hamster in a box on my entertainment unit made it impossible for me to eat breakfast. While we were driving to his daycare Matthew said "Mom, that box doesn't have any air holes. Chewie needs air holes."
Oh holy Jesus, I didn't put air holes in the box. Why hadn't I thought of that? I pulled over, got a pen out of my purse, and put air holes in the dead hamster's box. How far was I going to go with this, exactly? As fucking far as I needed to, apparently. Holes made, dead hamster well aerated, we continued on to the daycare. Matthew was dropped off and I went to work still with no idea what I was going to do and a quickly freezing dead hamster in a box on my front seat. By noon I had decided the vet was going to perform a miracle Jesus would have been proud of.
The vet was going to fix Chewie and make him all better. This would be achieved by going to a pet shop and getting an identical hamster to stick in the cage for when Matthew came home after school.
Three pet shops later on my lunch break I found what I thought was a suitable replacement. It had a brown face, it was a hamster, and those were really the only two requirements that I had in my desperate state. It was a girl...but that could be overlooked easily enough. I bought her, got her put in a box, filled out the forms, and we were on our way. I got home, reassembled the habitat, and put her in. I gave her some food and treats, and got her a little used to me before I went back to work. I wasn't going to be home when Matthew got home from school, Graham was picking him up. I alerted Graham to my plan, and as usual he told me to do what I pleased and took a few steps back to give me the wide berth my idiotic notions usually require. Graham is very supportive, and will always help me in whatever I do - whether that is encouraging me, or giving me enough rope to hang myself.
Graham phoned me as soon as they were in. I was very excited, and wanted to hear how happy Matthew was that Chewie was all better and bright-eyed again.
Graham: Carole, what were you thinking?
Me: What do you think?! Isn't he great looking?
Graham: Yeah, he looks great...but he's fucking white, Carole. The other hamster was brown.
Me: No, look at the face. It's the same face.
Graham: Well, sure, it's a hamster if that's what you mean. He's also twice the bloody size.
Me: It's a girl, actually.
Graham: So, the brown boy hamster dies and you substitute it with a hairy, white girl hamster twice the size?
Me: Yes. What does Matthew think?
Graham: I haven't shown him. You can do that when you get home.
My confidence was shrinking on the drive home. I got home, brought the hamster habitat down from the shelf and showed Matthew his hamster. Chewie was running around, happy and healthy, and quite obviously twice the size. Why hadn't I noticed that? Was it the black veil I wore all day that stunted my perception? Matthew smiled and said "Look, he's so healthy! He looks so much better!" and I agreed. He went on, "And he's bigger? Did he grow at the vet? And he's whiter! Did he have a bath?" and I agreed.
Matthew carried the cage back to his room and put it back on his dresser. He looked up at me with a big smile and said "Mom, he looks so good and healthy now. He looks like a completely new hamster." and gave me a hug.
And I agreed.
