Poor Smiffy the hamster. He has gone the way of all things.
He has turned up his toes, vacated the premises, and released his inner-self to the ether. Right now he’s probably frolicking in the summery sunflower fields in the sky, gathering seeds and filling his little pouches.
One moment he was a lively rodent, full of verve and vim; the envy of hamsters everywhere. But, just a few hours later he was a stiff ball of fur. A shell of his former self.
‘But he was so young!’
I hear the kids cry.
‘How could he be cut down in the prime of his life?’
Well, he was indeed just a young, James Dean of a rodent, and all I can assume is that he adhered to the code of ‘live fast, die young and stay pretty.’
So it goes.
We now have a replacement for Smiffy.
Smiffy is dead, long live Smiffette!
Smiffette is a more timid creature than her predecessor, and spends much of her time cleaning and flicking tiny poos away from her bottom area. This is something Smiffy never did. He took no time to preen himself. He wasted not a moment washing his face.
I can only deduce that lady hamsters are more fastidious than boy hamsters.
There is a down side to this turn of events (aside from the loss of dear, dear Smiffy, of course), and I am beginning to wonder what manner of children I have brought into this world. You see, neither of my children was phased by Smiffy’s passing. They have taken it in their stride as if hamsters die every day in our house. As if our home is the location of the fabled hamster graveyard.
Not a tear was shed. Hardly even a sad face was displayed. The main line of thought was . . .
‘Well, we have to get another one. This weekend.’
So Smiffy was duly buried in the back garden and his replacement was brought in. As simple as that. Quick turnaround.
One out, one in.
My only task now, is persuading my children that they can’t just bury me in the back garden and get a new one.