My family used to be simple: one spouse, two kids, three cats and four dogs. I had no intention of ever finding out what we could have five or six of. Never.

Two years ago, our neighbors left their six goldfish with my daughter while they ran a summer camp. Upon their return, they asked 12-year-old Heidi if she would like to buy the entire kit and caboodle for $50. Quickly, I shoved myself in front of my daughter and flatly announced, "No, thank you."

That was close.

When our very same neighbors moved from our Vermont hilltop, they donated those dratted fish to Heidi. She gladly accepted. By now we had lost a cat to extreme old age, so this didn’t look too bad.

Life progressed nicely until we had to replace the leaky aquarium and found a wonderful pet shop in Montpelier. Not only did they have myriad varieties of fish, by-golly, they had hamsters, mice, rats, and ferrets.

Heidi fell in love with Teddy Bear hamsters. She had to have one. "Only," says I, "if you clean your room and keep it clean for six months."

She pouted. Last time the room was cleaned, her dad used a shovel under her bed and loaded five huge garbage bags with detritus.

I had an assignment in the Cayman Islands for 10 days leaving my defenseless spouse in charge of the two teens. Mistake #1. Heidi is very convincing at the "Mom said I could have a hamster. Now." So convincing in fact, "I’ll even pay for it!" that brother Pete took her to the pet shop 25 miles away, on the other side of the mountains, to get a hamster. After all, you can’t throw out a leaky aquarium, can you? Of course not. It can hold a hamster perfectly well.

I returned to have Pete blithely announce the new presence. Teddy was awfully cute. Tiny little grey thing. Furry little bugger. Almost angora-like. Okay, what else could I do? "But you have to clean your room!"

Teddy was an escape artist. It’s inbred in hamsters. Any chance they get. The first time, Heidi wept with fear. I reckoned he’d get hungry and show up. The next night Teddy scrabbled around next to my bed and reappeared. The second time, Teddy stayed out longer. So long, in fact, that Heidi had to clean her room to find the little devil.

That was the fastest clean up job I had ever seen her pull off.

Within weeks, one of Heidi’s buddies decided that Teddy needed a companion. Mistake #2. Hamsters are loners. As Heidi remembered, Teddy had come out of the female bin, so he bought another one from the female bin. "Bear" was introduced to Teddy who prompted behaved like any other oversexed male.

Over the next days, Heidi commented that Bear was getting fatter and slower. "Maybe she’s pregnant?"

"Nah, Teddy’s a female. Isn’t she?"

Sixteen days later, "Mom!! She was pregnant!"

Bear had dropped her litter of eight squiggly little pink things with wide-open mouths between two "house" boxes on a pile of shavings. Terrified that Teddy or Bear would eat the squirmy things, Heidi pulled Teddy out of his home and thrust him into his rolling ball. She gathered the babes and put them into a tiny pouch she had sewn to carry Teddy around.

I just grabbed the phone and asked the root of all this evil what to do. "Buy another tank and bunch of hamster stuff, put them in a quiet corner and leave mother and babies alone for three weeks."

That line cost me $50 and trip to Montpelier. Generously, they added, "We’ll buy the babies back in three weeks." I could handle three weeks. After all—

Mistake #3. I didn’t count on Heidi wanting to keep all eight. She monitored their progress daily. She made sure Bear had enough food and quiet. That their home was warm, clean and dry.

And the wretched child named every one of those tiny creatures: Vanilla, Chocolate, Wavy Gravy, Peanut, Creemee. Pete renamed three, Herman The Stunt Hamster, Cracken and Bo-Bo.

At three weeks, we tootled out to Montpelier for another hamster set-up. We had to separate the boys and girls, don’t you know. The six boys got the 20-gallon tank, the two girls (Vanilla and Chocolate) stayed with Bear in a new 10-gallon tank. Teddy, of course, already had his own digs.

Peanut, the feisty runt, didn’t grow and his hind legs didn’t work properly. He'd bite any one and anything. The other five picked back. Time for another "outfit." Another trip to Montpelier. Another $40.

Squeaking exercise wheels drove us crazy. The nightly shriek of three wheels cut through dreams, hacked through thin fog-like sleep. What sleep? Nightly ritual, oil the wheels. And still they spun, relentlessly.

Little rodents.

While buying some balsa wood for a hamster maze, Heidi mentioned her menagerie to Anne as Anne toted up our bill. "Oh," says Anne, "our hamsters died and I have a huge hamster city to sell. Want it?"

Mistake #4. We bought it for $25. Less than 25% of what it had cost. Or what it would cost me...

We picked it up and Heidi happily transferred the five boys into their new home.

War broke out. You can’t change hamster habits that way. (Now, I learn this.) Another trip into Montpelier for a set-up to rescue poor Bo-Bo. Then it was Cracken. At $40-50 a shot, this is getting ludicrous. Then Chocolate and Bear started fighting. Yet another set-up.

By now, we have eight hamster homes, my credit cards are limp, and the nightly noise is appalling. Hamsters need quiet during the day, so they can create havoc at night. Three "homes" with four hamsters are in the bathroom, so the back part of the bathroom is off-limits until sundown. My husband shaves in the bedroom. Another five set-ups are strewn around Heidi’s room: on the floor, a dresser, a small cabinet, and stacked on a bench. Shavings cover our carpets.

And her clothes are piled everywhere all over again.

Humor Column Archive 2004

Humor Column Archive 2003