Eleven months ago, we adopted a hamster from the local shelter.
He was a tough little guy. He previously had been in a family with four small children, and their constant rough handling had hardened him. He was a fierce little nipper. My wife named him Hannibal – and it was not after the Carthaginian general. He had no compunction against biting me if my hand lingered in his cage. Dude was “street” – we had no idea how “street” until today.
We didn’t handle him; just fed him and cared for him. Hamsters can be affectionate – we’ve had two who liked being picked up, and would stand up and hold their arms out if they saw me coming – but Hannibal just did his own thing. Most hamsters are solitary animals, and he’d exercise on his wheels, investigate his cage, and tuck food away without any need for human companionship. But he was cute! One of the dwarf hamster species…Siberian would be my guess, given the darker line of fur down his back.
Hamsters only live 2-3 years at most. We have no idea how old he was when we adopted him. So I was saddened but not too surprised recently to find our little tough guy curled up unmoving underneath his favorite wheel. He’d been active just the night before.
Today is mild and damp. Good conditions for digging in the woods. So I put on my cap and some work gloves, fished the small body bag out of the freezer, and set out with a spade over one shoulder. There’s a magnificent tree only a hundred feet or so behind our building.
Around the far side of the tree, away from foot traffic, I dug a little hole in the black loam and dark clay. Into the hole went the biodegradable bag and our little friend’s mortal remains.
Stepping back from the hole, I noticed a large bottle lying in the leaves. Now, our condo association used to “adopt this spot” and clean along the path through the woods behind our property. My wife organized the cleanup days…until the times nobody else came, leaving us to do it all ourselves. Eventually we quit in disgust.
But here was this damned bottle right next to the tree. It bugged me. So I picked it up. After all, I was going past a trash can on my way back up the hill. It still contained some fluid, so I unscrewed the cap and let it flow onto the ground and the little grave.
It was only then that I looked at what was in my hand. A 40-ounce liquor bottle.
And here I was, the whitest guy in suburbia, pouring one out for my hammie.
Word.